


Nations and Ages

by Raidho



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Adventure, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raidho/pseuds/Raidho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arldom took more from the Warden than fighting the Blight ever did, including his lover. To close the distance between them he will scorch in magic a path from Ferelden to Antiva, and they will paint the streets of Antiva City red with the blood of Crows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Chains", which you may access through my profile. This story will be much darker, so I apologize if you're interested in something as sugary-sweet as "Chains" was.
> 
> These works are authorized for posting exclusively on AO3 only and no other internet site without my explicit written authorization.

Sequel to "Chains", which you may access through my profile. This story will be much darker, so I apologize if you're interested in something as sugary-sweet as "Chains" was.

* * *

When the sky finally made good on a days-long threat to rain the drops made a musical sound on the armor of the approaching newcomers, and after the first spats of rain no more fell on the Commander and his waiting retinue, as Anders reached up with one hand and settled a telekinetic shield over the important people in their group. The Commander didn't need to look back to see the smirk on Anders' face at what the Circle might consider abuse of magic, small a thing as it was.

Cadryn—not so much the _Commander_, but Cadryn Amell, the man behind the title—stepped out from under the shield. Even these discomforts were welcome, in freedom. And being soaked would give him good reason to delay the important business of the day, perhaps spend a few moments alone....

Oghren sidled up next to Cadryn, grumbling quietly at the rain, muttering something about it sliding down inside his armor, and after a moment loudly proclaimed, "I don't see him."

Indeed, one distinct personage, one Cadryn could never miss, was absent from the group of recruits Alistair brought to the keep. Cassius strode at Alistair's side, somehow reining in a tense excitement without the necessary command to do so.

A cool mask settled into place, one learned late in his time at the Circle, refined during the Blight and perfected as Arl. Behind this he buried all his rage, his pain, his _confusion_, and greeted his fellow warden and the small group of recruits with him as would be expected.

"Welcome, brothers and sisters." A voice honed to resonance, trained to project for efficiency in spellcasting, carried the words with both authority and warmth. Just because he was miserable didn't mean these new recruits had to be. In fact, they'd probably be much easier to deal with if they were happy, inspired, shared that camaraderie Alistair had spoken of so fondly and Cadryn had never known. "With the Blight defeated, now stands before us a greater task. You are the first of a new legacy for Fereldan Gray Wardens, those who will lay down the bulwark on which our successors will stand when the next Blight comes. By your actions now will they succeed, our voices and our swords carried through ages to lend them the strength they will need. It will be the echo of our wisdom that guides them when lost, the work of our hands that will right them when they fall. Tomorrow, you will _join_ _us_, and together, we will build something that lasts."

Someone in the small crowd gave an overly enthusiastic cheer, and despite the rain the air ran electric with excitement. Seven new wardens would double their numbers, optimistically assuming they all survived the Joining. For the moment things seemed on a bit of an upswing, excusing a certain rogue's absence. "Sorry you missed all the action," got the soft laugh he expected. "Head on in, get dried off and settled. Won't do to have a mess of sick recruits on our hands." They did as asked, led in by Anders and Oghren, one or two stopping to shake his hand, eager eyes sparking up at him from young faces. Beyond the mask they got nothing, only a charismatic and personable leader glad to have their enthusiasm, someone who agreed they could make a difference. It took someone practiced at reading people, at reading _him_ to see the weariness working in under the mask, the darkness growing in green eyes.

Once they passed Nathaniel remained, shifting from one foot to the other, uncertain. "Commander--"

"Just go," Cadryn said, giving Nathaniel as much of a reassuring smile as he could. It failed, somehow, but Nathaniel left anyway, hesitant.

And Cassius threw his weight against Cadryn's legs, knocking the mage to his back in the mud, and attacked him most viciously, pinning the mage to the ground and licking his face. Laughing, a short, sharp sound, Cadryn brought his good arm up to rub Cassius' head. "I missed you too, boy. More than you'll ever know." Stepping off, Cassius whined, perking his ears at that statement, but Cadryn just accepted a proffered hand up from Alistair, ignoring Cassius for the moment.

Alistair used that grip on his forearm to pull the mage into a one-armed embrace heedless of the mud and mabari slobber. "And it's good to see you, brother," Cadryn said. A sharp breath, then, "Where...?"

"Later,"Alistair whispered. On drawing away, Alistair kept that arm wrapped around Cadryn's shoulders in a friendly gesture, and they began walking toward the keep. "What happened?"

"This?" Cadryn tapped his left forearm where it lay in a sling. "An armored ogre _punched me_ out of a crushing prison spell. Broke this bone in at least four places," Cadryn gently laid his fingers against his left clavicle, "which wouldn't heal at all without magic, and as it stands is healing more slowly than it should. That made hunting down the new darkspawn incursion at its source very interesting, let me tell you." As soon as the rogue left earshot Cadryn pointed to his retreating form. "Do you know who that is?" Alistair shook his head. "Nathaniel Howe. And before you stroll up to give him a good thrashing," Cadryn held up his right hand in a staying gesture, "he's as loyal as they come. I thought you should know now, instead of being unpleasantly surprised."

"I appreciate that," Alistair said, tone turning dark. "It would be unseemly for the assistant Warden-Commander to knock out a fellow Warden first thing."

"I should warn you about the others, too." And Cadryn proceeded to do so as they entered the keep, preparing him for Anders' inevitable hostility towards a former Templar and Velanna's general agitation, and for Justice's mere existence.

"Then you've been busy, I take it? We only heard rumors in Denerim, frightening ones. But I caught that Anora isn't the least bit pleased with you about what happened in Amaranthine. She's considering convening the Landsmeet to discuss whether you're fit to rule here."

Anger lit up green eyes for a moment, the lines around them tightening, and from the set of his mouth Cadryn was about to say something foul about Anora—then it passed, faded so quickly Alistair wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. The mask settled into place, and that confused Alistair; Cadryn had never been reluctant about letting loose with his anger given a sympathetic ear. "She wasn't there. She couldn't understand." In his softening voice he sounded lost. "I had to protect what was still in my power to do so." Unobservant as he was, Alistair understood the mask now, and it frightened him.

"We need to talk," Alistair said, trying to change the subject. He needed a moment to think, to consider this new development, because he'd learned that plunging in headlong would only make things worse. "But not right now. Tonight?"

Cadryn nodded in response, and sought out a keep servant to show Alistair to his rooms. After the flurry of activity that must've passed through moments before the front hall stood eerily empty, and while ascending the stairs Alistair looked back to watch Cadryn, hoping against hope to see anything but what he saw.

The mage remained on the landing where they'd parted, gazing into the middle-distance, right hand idly playing with the gemmed earring he wore. Auburn hair and robes rain-slicked to his body exaggerated his shape and size: tall, heavily structured for a mage, but he'd always been very lean, not soft like the typical mage or thickly built like someone of his stature. Now he was little more than tight muscle stretched over an almost comically large frame. He looked wasted, ragged, and when he thought he was alone a hollowness crept into his eyes.

When he passed out of sight Alistair was almost thankful. During the Blight there had been periods where Cadryn's resolve weakened, but the mage hid it well, and Alistair only knew because Cadryn found the strength to be frank with him. This seemed different, deeper than a momentary despair.

And Alistair knew that, whatever Cadryn had seen or done, he wasn't the one who could make it right for the mage.

Somehow, "Tonight" never happened, slid past them, and Alistair refused to admit that he was putting the conversation off. So the next day happened, and the necessary Joining.

Each of the recruits got a few words of encouragement from the Commander. They were all young, mostly nervous, except one. By generous estimation she reached Cadryn's shoulders, petite frame but well-defined bone structure, cheekbones high and broad, an almost Antivan cast to her skin. Auburn hair fanned around her head in a wild flutter, as if permanently wind-swept, and green eyes bore a mix of pride and perpetual mirth.

"Your name?" Cadryn asked her.

"Melia Arvid," she answered, voice soft with a Highever accent.

And Alistair didn't realize it until he saw her standing in front of Cadryn, beaming up at him, and Cadryn looking down at her, lips twitching in a barely restrained scowl. "Does your mother know you're here?" Cadryn asked, voice soft and dark. They looked very similar, save for their statures.

"Yes." That cute smile widened, defiant. "And she can't do a damned thing about it, _Ser_."

"What do you think this is _about_?" Cadryn hissed. "Do you think you'll be part of some grand adventure? Are you after heroics? I could tell you about _heroics_\--" Remembering where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, Cadryn stopped, sighed quietly. "I could send you home. I _should_ send you home."

"But you won't," she said, still smiling, voice light. "Sigram said he met you in Denerim, after you slew the Archdemon. And 'half-Amell' is plenty enough to be family, he said. You send me back, mother will see me married off in a year or two and I'll be pushing out brats for some farmhand. I want to make a difference. I want to do _this_. Its still important, even without an Archdemon. You said so yourself." Cadryn finally relented to the scowl forming on his lips, glaring down at her. "Please, Uncle?"

"How old are you?" he asked, resolve crumbling.

"Sixteen." Her voice turned defiant, hands moving up to her hips to stand akimbo, as if the question offended her. "If I'm old enough to marry, I'm old enough to fight darkspawn."

Cadryn settled his right hand on her left shoulder, as his left was still in the sling, and pulled her close as if for an embrace. Melia looked pleasantly surprised, until he whispered in her ear such that no one else would hear, "Forty-six. Fifty, if you're very lucky. That's how long you'll live, if you do this."

When he let go and stood up properly she seemed dazed, a little frightened. Eyes fluttered, and she failed to regain her composure, but she whispered back, "Forty-eight."

"I had no choice," he muttered, grimly. "You do."

"And I've made it."

With a shaky breath Cadryn drew away, and once he moved away from her he regained his composure immediately. He faced the other recruits as Warden-Commander, stoic. "We have only a few words we say before the Joining. Alistair?"

Dinner passed both joyous and solemn for the newly Joined Wardens and their elders. Those newcomers were shocked, upset by what the Joining entailed, and those who'd already endured were quietly pleased they'd lost only two.

Cadryn spent most of dinner surreptitiously watching the new recruits. A young Dalish man, barely an adult so far as Cadryn could tell, had lapsed into awkward silence after failing to engage Velanna in conversation. His name escaped Cadryn at the moment, but supposedly the boy was an exceptional tracker, and had approached Alistair in Denerim.

A pair of Dwarven sisters, Ebba and Theu, chattered incessantly between themselves once the shock of seeing two fellow recruits die began to ebb. Oghren attempted to insinuate himself into their conversation, but the girls were witty enough together to deflect any unwelcome attention. One bore the tattoos of a casteless dwarf, and the other no tattoos at all, but they looked similar enough to be sisters. According to Alistair, Zevran had recruited them, and swore by their skill as a matched pair.

Melia almost immediately latched onto Nathaniel and Anders, talking to them in a fashion that Cadryn found somewhat too familiar. An unfamiliar and disconcerting possessive anger welled inside him at the sight, and left Cadryn dreading the next few months. He'd just met the girl yesterday, but got the feeling he'd be responsible for her for some time, if she was as much trouble as Sigram had once implied.

The last recruit worried him a little. Tauno hailed from Denerim's Alienage, and was remarkably tall for an elf, heavily muscled, silently enthusiastic, and probably oldest of the new recruits. Cadryn's estimations placed him around twenty-six. According to Alistair he'd been a gardener for an estate in Denerim, and needed the Wardens' protection after cutting down a trio of guards he found forcing themselves on a serving girl in his tool shed. The man had never held a sword before then, but had apparently done some truly devastating work on those guards. The way Tauno flinched when spoken to, stuttered in a too-soft voice, made Cadryn suspect some past trauma that would be difficult to overcome. The other elven wardens already regarded him with disgust and pity, and Cadryn worried about how the Alienage elf would behave in a sudden position of power, especially if so isolated.

Thankfully, everyone retired early, which meant Cadryn had some time to himself. The front room of his apartments had been converted into a sort of study, and he had a good deal of work to do, requests to sign that involved the refurbishment of the city of Amaranthine, correspondence from the nobility to read over. He dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk, and once there opened one of the lower drawers instead of moving for the sheaf of papers sitting atop. Too busy with the recruits and running the Arling, he'd spent all day without, and reached in, hands shaking—as soon as the door opened he slammed the drawer shut, looked up. "Alistair," he greeted with a warm smile, and a private twinge of resentment.

"I figure I've put this off long enough," Alistair said, and he found a plain chair off to one side, hefted it in one hand and sat it down before the desk. In his other hand he carried a cloth sack. "Zevran sent a few things with me. I don't have all of them here, he sent... something else, which is in my room now, I'll have to give it to you later." Sitting, Alistair opened the bag, pulled out a fine glass bottle, stout and square, perhaps a hand tall and half a hand wide, the liquid in it a rich amber. This he sat on the table, before drawing out a small rectangular package that, by the curl of Alistair's hand around it, carried some heft. Then he withdrew a carefully folded piece of paper, held closed with a dab of red wax, which he handed over. "Don't open that yet. He wanted me to tell you the story first."

Turning the paper in his hand, Cadryn found no seal on the wax, and no name on the outside. "The story?"

"It happened the night I got back from Highever," Alistair said. "I got back early, so I guess they meant to catch him alone. That was two months ago, maybe? Anyway. He wanted me to tell the story _just so_. Had me repeat it twice."

"Go on," Cadryn said, trying to remain impassive. Alistair took a deep breath, and began.

:::

Zevran woke from a beautiful dream of faintly golden skin and sleek muscle under his hands, laid out on the sparkling sand of an Antivan beach, to a glint of moonlight off polished dragonbone. Unthinking, he lashed out, grasped a thin elven wrist harshly and pulled, unbalancing his attacker and using that momentum to flip him. _Amateur_, Zevran thought, because the dagger slipped from his attacker's hand on landing, thrown across the room, and Zevran used what he had on hand, whipping up a pillow and slamming it down on the elf's face, straddling him to keep him in place.

As the elf struggled beneath him Zevran made a few quick observations. First, that he felt a breeze from a window recently opened. Second, that this elf was young, young as he'd been on his first real mission (far from his first kill), but by the cast of his skin the elf was Antivan, and no Crow was ever really a child. So, no, as the thrashing faded to violent twitches, Zevran reasoned that he _wasn't_ murdering a child, three years younger than his lover at the oldest, he was culling the ranks by removing an idiot novice.

That the sentiment occurred at all worried him.

No one was at the window, by the sound of things, the _smell_ of things in his suddenly hypersensitive state of being, that spike of adrenaline and satisfaction as the boy beneath him stilled. But there was noise, a little shuffle of feet, outside the door. Zevran drew away, leaving the pillow behind, went for his own sword and dagger, but didn't bother with armor. Standing very close to the door, no more than a breath away, he listened, eyes closed—creaking leather, the unconscious scrape of a boot heel, so soft... they thought they were being silent, but too nervous to really be so.

Zevran burst out of the door and caught a glimpse of the Crow outside. This one was young too, human, a little paler than the elf but not by much, close-cropped hair ruddy. He had his hand on his dagger by the time Zevran's strike connected, a sharp blow up at the crook of neck and shoulder, piercing the windpipe and, accidentally, an artery. Zevran's dagger sank deep, and he jerked it out harshly, not caring what he tore on the way out. A little spurt of blood followed, coloring his hand, and the Crow fell to the stone floor with no more than an involuntary gasp, quietly choking his life out.

Fear in those green eyes, just an instant of it, had been striking. Zevran tossed his sword aside, not worried in the slightest about any other attackers, and kneeling, curled the fingers of his free hand under the collar of the human Crow's armor, and dragged the dying boy down the hall, leaving a thin trail of blood across stone and carpet alike.

They were bait, carefully chosen. Just good enough to think they had a chance, not good enough to be a genuine threat. A pair of them, one a starving little teen elf with wild and desperate eyes, the human a redhead, both thrown at him like meat at a starving dog. He still loved the satisfaction of a well-executed kill despite the mark of Rinna's death on it, and it had been so long, so these Crows he had been meant to kill. But there was deliberate symbolism here.

_We will make you the instrument of your own demise_, they said. A game.

This was how Zevran came to stand at Alistair's door, perfectly nude save a fine golden chain at his neck, one hand carrying a bloody dagger and the other a young Antivan man choking to death on his own blood. Zevran knocked with the pommel of the dagger until Alistair opened the door, and as Alistair's sleepiness sharpened into alarm the Crow choked out his last breath. Zevran looked down at the body as if just realizing he had brought it along, a sort of confusion and anger for it following after him, then threw it down on the threshold. When he looked back up he announced, "I am leaving."

Zevran recounted the story of what waking to the two assassins, and then explained, "They were not meant to succeed. They were bait and a message, rolled into one. Someone is here, in Denerim, trying to lure me out into a vulnerable position, trying to make me confront them. So I must leave instead, to confront them on my own terms. To strike at  
the heart, as it were."

"You don't have to leave," Alistair said. "The Wardens can protect you. _Cadryn_ can protect you—he's an Arl, now."

"This is precisely why I must leave." Zevran made no efforts to disguise the pain of this decision, seeing no point in it now. Alistair had become a friend somehow during the final weeks of the Blight, and more so since realizing Zevran's devotion to the Wardens' cause in Ferelden (and forgiving his refusal to go through the Joining). Some things were for Cadryn's ears alone, certain things impossible to say to anyone else for the Warden-Commander had wormed his way under Zevran's skin with his gentle but insistent manner... ever the healer, in all things. So Zevran now had the strength to stand before Alistair unmasked, if only for a few moments. "He would do everything in his power to protect me, but he cannot protect _everyone._ And when the streets of Denerim or Amaranthine run red with blood, people will clamor for him to give me up. He will never do it, and it will ruin him. They want this." That was why they'd sent a matched pair, the message. "I must leave. Tonight, if I can, before they do anything else."

It made a sadistic sort of logic, what the Crows meant to do, and Alistair figured it was the only way to touch someone like Zevran, in the graces of one so powerful. So he just nodded, and said, "I understand."

"Will you help me pack? There are few hours left in the night, and I wish to ask a favor of you." Alistair agreed, finally struck by just how ridiculous all of this was, and at once horrifying. Violence was simply a fact of life, but this was somehow different, colder, the way Zevran had moved before throwing the human assassin aside, the _manner_ of his indifference to blood and his own nudity. The Crows were young, and the one smothered to death made him cringe, but Alistair learned the story and helped Zevran pack what few possessions he intended to take and accepted instructions for the rest dutifully.

And he waited patiently while Zevran penned three different copies of the letter and swore Alistair to secrecy on the fact that one of them was sentimental nonsense, discarded immediately.

:::

"He had me send the first letter by rider, insisted I should time it so that I arrived here before it could. And the third is that one there, which hasn't left my possession until now."

Cadryn said nothing, letting the story sink in for a moment, but he idly traced the dollop of red wax with a fingertip, staring down at the surface of his desk. "As much as it pains me to admit it," Cadryn finally said, eyes still distant, that hollowness sliding in, making Alistair shift uncomfortably in his seat, "he was right to do this. But I wish he had come to see me, first, impractical as it would've been."

"I should... I should just let you read the letter, shouldn't I? He meant it to be private, I think. I got the impression he wanted the other letter to be intercepted."

Cadryn finally regained some sense of place, looked up at Alistair and forced a smile. "You can stay a while, if you like, but I'd rather read this in private, yes."

Standing, Alistair gave him a little nod, hunching his shoulders into an apologetic posture. "I'll just go, then. Tomorrow?"

Cadryn understood the unspoken question there, trying to subtly ask if he would explain what had happened in Amaranthine. "Tomorrow," he answered, trying not to grimace, and Alistair left.

For a long while Cadryn sat turning the letter over in his hand, fingers twitching, trembling... it wouldn't do to have that as a distraction, so he sat the letter aside for a moment, went for the drawer again. He didn't indulge, just needed enough to take the edge off, to keep his hand from shaking while he read the letter, and waited a moment for that to sink in, distasteful as the admission of Zevran's apparent abandonment being _the right thing_.

Cadryn decided he was sick to death of _the right thing_. And when he no longer felt like he was about to rattle apart at his joints, Cadryn picked up the letter again, carefully pried the seal open, and unfolded it.

_Cadryn,_

_I pray that this reaches you uninterrupted, and before my other letter. I trust Alistair will display some competence in this, for he has never failed in anything especially important. I ask that when it reaches you, you must read my other letter, and behave accordingly, but believe none of it. Rest assured, I love you._

_It feels good to write those words. There is no more fear now. I think, facing the prospect of a protracted separation has dulled that pain. Ever the liberator, of all things including men's hearts, are you not?_

_I am certain Alistair has told you the story, and done so to my satisfaction. And I am certain you understand why I must go to Antiva, to settle this matter before it can come to your door and ruin this peace you have earned. I would give much to have you at my side, but if we are to have that future we have discussed, we must remain separate a little while longer. I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, I expect you to keep my effects safe (they should look familiar). The brandy I meant to share with you on my arrival, but it will be safer waiting with you, I think. Do not open it until I return to you._

_The sword I meant to surprise you with, recalling your complaints about the weight of Fereldan and Dalish blades, about the way they make you strike. It is Rivaini in nature, and I think it will be more to your liking. Please, do not let your hand stray to the hilt too often when dealing with your nobles; this foil may be sharp, but is not nearly so witty or insightful as the one meant to be at your side._

_I apologize for how melancholy this letter is, but I am in some haste to depart, and the art of articulation escapes me. I will not be able to write you again until my business is concluded, for fear it would be intercepted and my ruse uncovered._

_I love you, and I will return to you. Above all else, you must believe in these two things._

_Yours,_   
_Zevran_

He read the letter twice more before setting it aside, laying his head on the desk, and cried for the first time since Denerim.

_So much for casting aside our old chains for new ones._


	2. Chapter 2

Convincing Alistair that yes, he really was Warden-Commander in Cadryn's absence, had been difficult, but the hardest part of leaving for Denerim was leaving Cassius behind. The hound whined pitifully, not just at Cadryn's impending absence but the tension surrounding the event. Though he spoke of facing the Landsmeet with confidence, he was honestly equal parts terrified and excited—terrified that he wouldn't be coming back to the Keep, and excited for the very same reason.

The Keep could spare no guards so soon after the assault, even with the near doubling of the number of Wardens, not between their security concerns and the initial efforts of rebuilding the city of Amaranthine. So he meant to leave alone, unwise as it was—time alone on the road, to think, to sort out everything that had happened and everything that might, would be welcome. A moment where his life was his own again. He had no doubt that, between the magic he'd learned to fight off the Mother and her hordes, and the new sword hanging at his hip, he could handle any physical challenge on the road.

So Cadryn stopped abruptly when Nathaniel peeled away from the wall just outside the outer gates, equally outfitted for a trip, and approached to stand next to him. Cadryn shifted, setting the butt of his staff against the ground and trying not to scowl down his nose at Nathaniel, trying not to say anything untoward—he'd been fond of Nathaniel up until the Blackmarsh, and his inane comments about adventure and excitement, but was still glad of his skill with a bow and his support in Amaranthine, and at least respected the man enough to say, "Explain yourself," rather than send him away immediately.

"You mean to face the Landsmeet alone," Nathaniel started, somewhere between a statement and a question. "I've heard about the last time, enough to know you had the nobles on your side before you ever set foot in the chamber, and you had a righteous anger and nothing to lose in expressing it. You won't have time to explain yourself to them beforehand, and they'll eat you alive with that attitude." Shifting his weight, Nathaniel seemed a little uncertain in his next words, hesitated briefly. "Anora may have appointed you, and you may be a hero, but you're still an outsider, and a _mage_ at that. Nobles are creatures of habit, they forget debts and alliances in favor of trends and tradition. Whatever you earned during the Blight, they'll have conveniently forgotten in the past year." Over the course of this, Nathaniel regained his confidence, until he spoke with fervor, dark eyes blazing, and he gestured sharply to himself with one hand. "I was one of them, and I still am in the minds of many. I was there, I know why you had to do it. I can help you."

"And if I told you to stay," Cadryn observed, making a very obvious glance at how well Nathaniel was outfitted for the trip, "I suppose you would follow anyway, and appear dramatically in time to save me from these vultures?"

"That was the back up plan." Smiling, Nathaniel clearly thought this a victory, "You don't have to do this alone, Commander."

_And if I want to fail?_ but Cadryn said nothing of the sort, merely sighed and shook his head. "If you insist on accompanying me to Denerim, at least use my name." And he started walking, didn't wait for any response from Nathaniel. This so surprised the other man that he had to step in double-time to catch up and walk at Cadryn's side, and Cadryn allowed himself a small smile.

"Forgive me," Nathaniel said, "but I've grown so accustomed to hearing you called Commander and saying it myself—I don't think I've ever heard anyone say your name."

That stung, for some reason, but Cadryn pushed it away and made a subtle barb of his own in return, "Not even from Oghren?" But he already knew the answer. "Or Melia? She's taking a special interest in you, it seems."

"And she's hardly more than a child," Nathaniel said dismissively. That stung as well—they were only about four years apart in age. "No, she calls you 'Commander', as everyone else does. Though it's very clear you're related."

"She's my niece," Cadryn explained. "And more trouble than she's worth. But I suppose if she hadn't come to the Wardens, she'd be in some mercenary company—at least someone can keep an eye on her, here."

Nathaniel just made a sound of acknowledgment, then prodded, "Your name?"

With a laugh just the mirthful side of a scoff, Cadryn asked, "Not falling for it?"

"You learn to read people when you grow up around politics. My father is perhaps the only person I've ever failed to understand. And you, but only because you leave so much out. So, no. I know a distraction when I see it."

"Cadryn," he said, softly. "Cadryn Amell. Satisfied?"

"Is it so hard?" Nathaniel asked, and when he only got a sidelong glance in response he clarified, "Letting people in."

Restraining himself from a sharp breath or any other tell, Cadryn said, "You learn things in a community so insular as a Circle. There are many kinds of trust, all of which must be earned separately, and there are some things you trust no one with—they will destroy you, even accidentally. I trust your aim to be true in a fight, I trust you with my life in a dire situation." With a grimace, he added, "I am _going_ to trust you to help me with the Landsmeet, much as it pains me to do so."

"The Wardens are a brotherhood of sorts," Nathaniel offered. "There's a difference."

"So I should befriend everyone instead of being their Commander?" Cadryn deadpanned. "That doesn't sound like a recipe for insubordination at all."

"Fair enough." But from his tone Nathaniel was only dropping it for the moment,

The second day was harder than the first, self control fading as he had to draw out the time between doses, and Nathaniel's mildly intrusive questions began to grate. Eventually, Cadryn snapped in response, and Nathaniel turned his conversation to simpler things. When he felt a need to speak the other man spoke of his time in the Free Marches, and Cadryn related a story from the time of the Blight once or twice, small things, obscure little truths behind the growing legend.

On the third day Nathaniel asked, "Your earring—what happened to it?"

Resisting the urge to pat the pocket where it was secreted away to reassure himself of its presence, Cadryn simply made a curious noise as if he didn't understand, so Nathaniel said, "You were so concerned about it in the mines. It seems strange to see you without it—something is... _different_."

The care in Nathaniel's voice disarmed him momentarily, and it was still a sore point, one he had to play up for Zevran's sake. "It was a gift," Cadryn explained, resignedly. "An engagement gift—a token of affiancement, if you will. From one of my companions during the Blight." He didn't have to pretend this hurt, looked away to the roadside and the stunted, scrubby forest they were passing through.

"I wasn't aware you were involved with anyone." Even though he carefully schooled his surprise, Cadryn could still hear a hint of it in Nathaniel's voice. "I take it something happened to her?"

Cadryn allowed himself a laugh—Nathaniel had drawn the obvious conclusions, assuming Morrigan or Leliana. "He left me," hurt, even though it was a lie, because it was also _true_. "It wouldn't have worked, in retrospect—people already balk at having a common-born mage as Arl in Amaranthine, but one openly involved with a man? An elf, a foreigner, and a former assassin, at that?" Shaking his head, Cadryn looked back, offered Nathaniel a sad smile. "It's better this way. I suspect that may be part of the reason why he did it."

Nathaniel had no response for a moment, looking away, eyes downcast in thought. Accepting the silence, Cadryn turned his attention back to the road, and so when Nathaniel spoke again it startled him out of a growing stupor. "It shouldn't matter, what others think, especially in so personal a matter. But we don't live in a perfect world."

Offering a patronizing smile, Cadryn said, "I need no comforting words of wisdom. He was always a little reluctant, easily frightened, especially of commitment. I don't rightly know why he offered the token in the first place."

~*~

On the night of the fifth day, it happened. Cadryn kept careful track of his supply of lyrium, so a vial missing when he opened his pack went noticed. He stalked out of his tent immediately to confront Nathaniel, preparing a vehement tirade that would send him running back to the Keep, purposefully staving off his dose so the want of it put a little more edge in his voice and attitude. Nathaniel sat by the dying fire, vial in hand, looking expectant.

"I wanted you to know that I know," Nathaniel said, shaking the vial once for emphasis, the blue liquid sloshing enticingly against the cork, an almost sensual curl to the fluid as it fell back into place. "It's a hard thing to hide on the road, though no one questioned while we were fighting the Darkspawn."

Crossing his arms, Cadryn glowered down at the other man. "And you mean to save me not only from the Landsmeet, but myself? How very _noble_ of you."

"No." Nathaniel held the vial out, offering it. "I wanted to tell you that this is none of my business. As long as you don't let it rule you, this is no affair of anyone's."

Hesitantly, Cadryn closed the distance between them and took the vial, sliding it into a fold of his robes. "And as long as you don't let it rule you, I'll happily help you conceal it. A man in your position needs some sort of release, and no one has the right to judge you for it."

For a moment Cadryn stood, staring at him in confusion, and Nathaniel grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny, looking away. Whatever Nathaniel was on about escaped even him, but it was _worrisome_ all the same. Was he trying to replace one of the companions? Alistair, maybe? They could never be that close, Nathaniel was too forward, too unsubtle with his attempts at friendship, and the bond of blood from the Joining wasn't nearly as strong--

No, that explained it _perfectly_. Cadryn had cared little for Alistair before the Joining, but afterward there had been an understanding between them deeper than words, the taint in each of them recognizing its like in each other. He'd done some research in texts recovered from the Warden's stash in Denerim, and it was common among Wardens joined with the same Archdemon's blood, this strange connection. Cadryn had channeled Urthemiel's power, so it made sense that some of the recruits joined on that Archdemon's blood might sense the lingering effects, a weaker version of the song that bound the Darkspawn.

After a moment of hesitation Cadryn sat down across the dying fire. "It's not a release," he sighed. "I took too much in the Deep Roads, while we were chasing the Mother. It's only to keep the cravings at bay."

"Then if you want to rid yourself of it, I'm willing to help. On our way back from Denerim would be the perfect time; no one else will ever have to know."

"No," Cadryn said, a little too quickly. "I don't want to deal with that and the loss of Zevran _and the Landsmeet _at the same time."

"I understand." Nathaniel gave a little nod. "He was very important to you, wasn't he?"

_You have no right to know any of this_, but Cadryn made himself say the words, grating them out through clenched teeth. "He's the only reason I survived the Blight. He's the reason why Ferelden is still standing, and united again. I didn't do it out of a sense of patriotism or heroism or what have you—I did it because no matter where he ran, the Blight would catch up eventually, and I didn't want to imagine a world without him."

"But he left," Nathaniel stated, words slow and careful.

_And now you have no purpose_, went unsaid, but Cadryn heard it all the same, and grimaced, running a hand through his hair a little roughly, using the slight pain to keep himself from slipping too far into despair. "Not exactly." He gave a sharp, mirthless grin, highly contrasted in the scant light. "He was a Crow," Cadryn said, softly. "A good one. You don't leave the Crows with their secrets. They came for him, and rather than bring them to Amaranthine, he went to Antiva to prove he's not worth their time. As if standing at my back when I killed the Archdemon isn't proof enough."

"Then why lie?" Nathaniel asked. "Why remove the earring?"

"He needs the Crows to think we've separated on less than ideal terms, that he's alone, so they send no one here to attack him in an emotional sense. So he can focus on what he's doing. Besides, if I need physical trinkets to affirm his commitment," Cadryn peeled back the collar of his robes to reveal a glint of fine gold, "we're already as close to wed as two men can be in Ferelden." Cadryn relaxed, letting his hands fall to his lap—it felt good to talk about Zevran, even to Nathaniel, exciting in a strange way. "He promised to return, and I believe him. Until then, I will endure, difficult though it may be at times."

"If you ever need to talk about him, I can be discrete. Keep those secrets. You shouldn't make it any harder than it has to be."

Cadryn nodded, looking away, face neutral—but the offer meant more to him than anything else in the entire exchange.

The lyrium gave him vivid dreams as usual, an exotic tumble with his exotic lover full of strange imagery. The dream he had as the lyrium faded just before dawn was the stranger one, wandering down a dark tunnel of the Deep Roads with only a spell wisp for illumination. Somehow, the darkness was no impediment, he moved on instinct. Eventually the wisp extinguished, yet still there was a very faint glow, as of green flame. He'd read about this, too, Wardens close to their Calling starting to _change_ physically, a glow to the eyes being one of the first signs.

He walked for hours without stopping, for years, for ages, and when he found the Darkspawn they were digging furiously, ignored him utterly, and he found he had no urge to attack them, only a strange, clinical detachment. In the faint illumination of his own eyes he found the hand gripping his staff was no longer his own, but bone-fine and mottled gray, gnarled into a knot of a fist like the bole of a tree.

Gasping and swearing he woke, sweat-slicked and shaking. Another dose of lyrium both parched his deathly-dry throat and eased his nerves, able to catch up to the thrum of lingering adrenaline. It was some time before he felt confident in his ability to stand, though, between the crawling of his skin and the subtle hallucinations half-seen in his peripheral vision from the lyrium. Being the sort of mage he was, Cadryn walked half in the Fade most of the time, so these little snatches of the Fade overlapping the real world were hardly disorienting. _Most_ of the time, at least. His greatest concern was that as his tolerance to the lyrium increased and he began taking larger and larger doses, it might weaken his ability to resist being pulled into the Fade involuntarily, might weaken his resistance to the influence of demons and spirits. And that would be most unfortunate. The damage a demon-possessed Warden-Commander and Arl could do was a waking nightmare.

With a grimace and a dry swallow he dismissed the thoughts, went on with his day. Nathaniel seemed more comfortable with silence now, and Cadryn had some much needed time to think. He found himself staring at the countryside instead, feeling dull-witted, empty in mind and heart.


	3. Nations and Ages Chapter 3

When they arrived in Denerim they found themselves staying at Howe's old estate, which was _still_ being refurbished. Varel had apparently put in orders to remove any overt trace of Howe's influence, though not of his family's occupance. As such, no evidence of his late love of torture lingered, as it likely did in the Arl of Denerim's estate. They only had a night before the Landsmeet, and Nathaniel spent it wondering the halls of a place full of distant memories. "I've only been here a handful of times," the youngest Howe confessed, "and only as a child."

Teagan arrived obscenely late, but Cadryn was still awake, hardly able to sleep in advance of the Landsmeet. He'd been in worse shape for the first one and done more, so he worried little over it. But Teagan appeared grim when they settled down in the kitchen over a heavily mulled wine, an informal setting to make their grim meeting more comfortable.

"We can't stand with you at the Landsmeet," were the first words out of Teagan's mouth after stilted pleasantries. "What happened in Amaranthine is too terrible. And I regret it—we _both_ regret it. Surely you did what you did for a reason, but it still rings as a reprehensible act to the rest of the nobility. Amaranthine was one of our jewels, a prized port—the whole region could collapse if it doesn't get back on its feet quickly."

"What have you heard from the others?" Cadryn managed around the sudden dryness in his mouth, something no amount of wine could combat. "I want to know what I'm walking into."

"You'll have no allies," Teagan said. "They'll run you out of the Arldom for certain, and if a few of Howe's friends have their way, they'll see you executed in disgrace. They're not likely to get their way though—you're still a hero, and I'll stand against that with the force of Redcliffe's men if I must. Eamon's given me permission to decide for him in such an event."

"No sympathy at all?"

"There's sympathy aplenty." Teagan leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back, relaxing slightly as if the worst was over. "The more reasonable Banns and Arls would respond well if you begged assistance, made a case for their help in restoring Amaranthine. They want to see some regret, but not melodrama. The more vicious will seize on any sign of weakness, even this. I don't know what direction to advise you to take."

With a slow nod, Cadryn said, "I understand. Thank you, though. I think I know what I should do."

They spoke a little further, about news around the kingdom, about how people back in Redcliffe were doing, about just what had happened in Amaranthine, about the new recruits, and eventually Cadryn started to relax, physically falling out of his forward-sitting, attentive posture into a more comfortable slouch, tension leaving him like a spring slowly unwinding. By the end of the visit it was clear Teagan bore him no real resentment for what had happened in Amaranthine, and that was reassuring. If anything the Bann pitied him, though he didn't go quite so far as admitting it.

And it was probably thanks to Teagan calming him down that Cadryn managed to sleep at all that night, even if only in snatches of no more than an hour. Too wound up to relax any further, he woke early. He didn't want to care about what the nobles thought, but someone else running Vigil's Keep meant the Wardens would have to find a new home.

~*~

Cadryn strode confidently into the Landsmeet chamber, full of enough bluster to hide his fear. He figured nothing else could be done at this point, so why worry overmuch? But it was one thing to have the thought and another to live it, so he remained nervous, but more in control. Nathaniel walked to one side and just a pace or two behind, eying the nobles coolly.

When Anora beckoned Cadryn to her side Nathaniel stayed behind, well out of earshot of their hushed conversation. Cadryn was ready to slip some vitriol in her ear for calling the Landsmeet, for a perceived betrayal, but she murmured softly to him, "They forced my hand. I am sorry for this." All his anger deflated, left him hollow, because there was truth in her eyes, no lie. After all, they were tenuous allies, and good for each other as such—what Arl wouldn't want the Queen on his side, and as Warden-Commander it gave him a strong position to stand in for their actions in Ferelden; and what Queen wouldn't want a renowned hero for a friend, one she could claim to have supported all along in the face of detractors and doubt? They didn't have to like each other, but she clearly liked what Cadryn's presence did for her in a political sense, and that was more than he expected from her.

In twenty more minutes everyone necessary had arrived, and Anora began. "We have all heard distressing rumors out of Amaranthine of late, not only of Darkspawn activity but of the destruction of her largest city, a shining jewel in Ferelden's crown. It is with a heavy heart that I must confirm these rumors, and call this Landsmeet to determine if the Warden-Commander is fit to rule his arling in light of these developments."

He couldn't remember the Bann's name, someone he'd been introduced to very briefly at the first meeting of court in Amaranthine, but a man stepped forward on the floor below, "I have several letters from freeholders of Amaranthine that I would like to read to the Landsmeet." Anora gave him permission for what was likely to be a protracted delivery, and the man began, "This is from a woman who's husband was in the city on business when the city was burned." And he read the letter, a heartfelt account of the anguish resulting from her husband's death. He went on with other letters in the same vein, highly emotional and clearly taken almost immediately after the city's fall. Cadryn wanted to be angry with him for manipulating the emotions of men and women to his own ends, but instead each word was a tiny chip at the armor he surrounded himself with, another finger pointing and a voice crying _You have failed us_. By the time the man stopped, shuffling the papers to his off hand and looking up at Anora, said, "I could go on for another hour, but I think that's plenty," Cadryn felt fully demoralized, utterly dejected. He suspected that was the true point.

Others spoke up against him, all Banns—Teagan, here in Eamon's stead, remained silent, as did Teyrn Cousland and Arls Wulff and Bryland. Eventually Anora held up a hand and said, "Enough. Warden-Commander? The Landsmeet demands some explanation for your actions. Do you have anything to say in your own defense?"

Cadryn took a deep breath, stepping up to the railing to face the gathered nobles below. "The Darkspawn will not be a serious threat in Ferelden again—their organization is broken utterly. What happened in Amaranthine was necessary to keep them from spreading, though I desperately wish it hadn't been so, and I would do it again with less hesitation. I stand by my decision, and if the Landsmeet finds that conviction damning, then clearly Amaranthine should be in more suitable hands."

"You see? There! An admission of his unsuitability for the Arldom from his own lips! Do you need anything further?"

Teyrn Cousland leaned over the railing on the opposite side, a tense, serious look hardening his face, lips thinned into a pale line. His eyes caught Cadryn's, briefly, and for a moment Cadryn felt that Fergus Cousland looked _through_ him, assessing all that he was in a moment's glance. "Need I remind you that Arl Cadryn _ended the Blight_ and is the _Warden-Commander_ for Ferelden? I should think if anyone is fit to make so terrible a decision, it would be him. _Look at him_," Fergus gestured with an open hand across the room, and everyone looked up at his command, pinning Cadryn with their gazes as if he were some particularly interesting specimen under a Circle Enchanter's scrutiny. "Does he look to you as if he _enjoyed_ doing this to the people who are ultimately his responsibility?"

"This is precisely my point!" the same Bann shouted from the floor, and Cadryn wracked his brain for a name but still couldn't summon it forth, wanting to pin this man down for who and what he was. "He is a Grey Warden, not even from Freeholder stock, and hardly more than a _child_! Tell them how old you are, _Arl_!"

Cadryn hesitated, and in that moment Teagan finally spoke up. "What does it matter?"

"Just _tell them_, _Arl!_" The Bann sneered his title again, and Cadryn wanted to spit at him, swear vehemently, or just choke the life out of him bare-handed, but knew such rage was impotent in the face of the Landsmeet.

"I'm twenty," he lied—he wouldn't be so for another month. A murmur passed through the nobles on the floor, and Fergus rubbed a hand across his face, clearly annoyed with the display.

"Which means the fate of Ferelden—nay, of all _Thedas_, rested on the shoulders of a _child_, a man so barely into his majority that he can hardly be considered such!" With a sharp, vehement gesture up toward Cadryn, he continued. "And a mage, at that! He could hardly be called _human_ in the first place! How could he ever understand the implications of such a decision, the bonds of kinship among _lesser mortals_ that he destroyed when he condemned Amaranthine City?"

"_When_ did this turn into a Satinalia farce?" Teyrn Cousland leaned out again, practically roaring at the Banns on the floor who were muttering and nodding along with their fellow. "I have seen first hand the Darkspawn and the effect their taint has on men and women—and I know for a fact many of you have as well, or have you so suddenly forgotten the Blight and the toll it took on our families? Each of us was touched by it personally. This _mage_," Fergus pointed across the room, and caught Cadryn's gaze again for a moment, a brilliant fire burning in his eyes, "is our only _real_ defense against such a threat. If he hadn't taken those measures, we'd all be up to our eyes in Darkspawn again and begging Orlais for help!"

"If I may." Everyone turned to look, the motion almost audible, at Nathaniel, who stepped forward in the crowd on the floor to stand next to the vociferous Bann, Constable Aidan in tow. "This is Constable Aidan, the head of Amaranthine City's guard. We were both present."

"And who are you?" another Bann asked, but the vociferous one stepped back, confusion and recognition plain on his face.

With a little smirk he said, "Nathaniel Howe," and seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the murmur that passed through the gathering. "Constable, if you would."

"I personally advised the Warden-Commander to abandon Amaranthine in favor of Vigil's Keep, which was under siege at the time," Aidan said, addressing the Landsmeet 'at ease', hands clasped behind his back. "We were taken down to a handful of men, not by Darkspawn but by disease. They did something, set a spreading sickness on the city, something we could combat no other way. I have absolutely no doubt the Warden-Commander and his men could have routed the Darkspawn alone, but those we saved would die either from the sickness or under our blades before they could spread it. What we did was gruesome, yes, but utterly necessary."

"I was there as well," Nathaniel said, refusing to give anyone a chance to speak up. "And I support what he did wholeheartedly. The city itself sustained little damage, but we prevented the Darkspawn and their disease from spreading. Vigil's Keep would likely have fallen without our return, and then the task of settling affairs in Amaranthine would have fallen to Highever and Denerim, neither of which would have been able to provide troops in sufficient numbers so soon after the Blight. Amaranthine as a whole would have been lost. We owe our lives and our good health to this man."

Raising a hand, Anora said, "I think we've heard enough. Removing the Arl is ultimately a decision of the crown, since I appointed him, but I will take the Landsmeet's decision into advisement."

That they fell equally divided was somehow a relief, as this surely excluded execution altogether as a possibility. Standing so close to her Cadryn heard Anora give a soft sigh, her proud posture failing for just an instant before she announced, "The crown feels it is better to leave the standing Arl of Amaranthine in place rather than risk another appointment. He is, after all, familiar with the situation--" The floor erupted into chaos, and only ended when Fergus Cousland and Bann Teagan shouted the gathering down. "We would, however, like to see an observer placed, one recommended by the Chantry, in light of the fact that Arl Cadryn _is_ a Circle mage--"

"_What?_" Cadryn couldn't help himself, starting forward, gaping at Anora dumbly in disbelief. "You can't--"

"I can and I _have_," Anora whispered to him. "I am doing my best to save you as much face as possible while still pleasing them—we do not need the Bannorn in an uproar and a second rebellion on our hands!" Turning back to the gathering, she continued. "Further, I request that, effective immediately, Arl Cadryn take on Nathaniel Howe as his Seneschal, should Ser Howe be willing."

Sketching a little bow Nathaniel said, "I would be honored, your Majesty."

"If you wish it," Cadryn said, but he could hardly believe the statement, and he wondered if perhaps Nathaniel and Anora had discussed it at some point beforehand, though when Cadryn couldn't say.

"Does this please the Landsmeet? A Howe back in Amaranthine and a Templar to keep an eye on the _mage?_" Fergus asked, almost as if practiced, though the mocking tone in his voice was sincere.

A murmur passed across the floor, and the vociferous Bann spoke for them: "For now."


	4. Promises and Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel learns more about the Commander with little actually said, and things are not as hopeless as they seem.

Cadryn found himself collapsed into a surprisingly comfortable chair in a study a hall away from the Landsmeet chamber, practically curled over one arm of the chair with a hand over his face, blocking out the soft afternoon light of late fall filtering through a window. The room smelled strongly of books and ink, comforting and familiar scents, and probably the only thing keeping Cadryn from expelling the contents of his stomach right then and there. His nerves from the Landsmeet were reacting badly with the lyrium taken this morning, and as soon as his adrenaline high had begun to crash a crippling headache seized him. Of course he'd known such a thing could happen, but dismissed the possibility—he had a remarkably strong constitution for a mage, after all.

Nathaniel, of course, sliding into his new role as easily as if he were Varel himself (but Cadryn reminded himself testily that Nathaniel was not and could never be Varel), noticed immediately that something was wrong, had made excuses for him, and was now doing everything Cadryn was supposed to be doing after the Landsmeet. Likely a hundred times better than he could. They should have made him Arl instead.

Of course, Cadryn could still see through the darkness behind his eyelids, shapes flitting at edge of his vision, an awful pressure as the Fade tried to draw him in. It was only by virtue of the Arcane Warrior's knowledge gifted him in the Brecilian Forest that he was still conscious and tethered to the real world, using the same magic that let him slip halfway into the Fade to wield arms and armor well beyond his physical capacity and to dis-corporate around a blow like a spirit might to keep himself grounded.

When the door opened he ground his teeth against an exasperated sigh or an angry word, and looked up when Teyrn Cousland said, “I wanted to speak to you about what happened in there.”

He was alone, thankfully, and Cadryn managed a thin smile. Teagan's grim report had left him with little hope for support, and he was somewhat bewildered by Teyrn Cousland's behavior, but grateful. “Thank you, by the way.”

Fergus shut the door behind him, took a few more steps forward to close the distance between them, then stopped with a last hesitant step. “Are you well?”

Cadryn couldn't tell the truth, of course, but he could be vague. Widespread ignorance on the topic of mages made it easy to bluff his way through most anything, so he said, “There are days when I would give most anything to be one of those lesser mortals.” He waved a hand dismissively, and the gesture had a little more weight than intended. “This is fleeting.”

“Your new seneschal's father slaughtered my family to a man. I only survived by my absence. And I understand you lost family in the attack as well.” Fergus took a few steps closer, tone soft but serious, a rage under his voice begging for an excuse to be released. “I need to know what sort of man he is before I can sleep knowing the Howes have some control over Amaranthine again.”

“He's a Grey Warden now,” Cadryn said, sitting up a little to face Fergus more properly. “And loyal. And horrified by what his father became. After seeing his reaction to proof of his father's crimes, I believe his ignorance was genuine, though perhaps willful. As he was rather conveniently out of the country, he had nothing to do with the older Howe's crimes. Rest assured, if I thought he were anything like Howe, I'd see him dealt with.”

“That's reassuring.” Fergus hesitated a moment, then continued with, “It takes some of the sting from what Howe did to know his depravity didn't infect his entire family. We counted them as friends, once.”

“Then you should speak to Nathaniel personally. I've met few worthier.” The words were meant to be mollifying, but Cadryn found they rang truer than he himself expected.

“I shall.” Cadryn took Fergus' tone to mean they were done, and leaned into his hand, covering his eyes again, as the gentle light was stinging pinpricks in the backs of his eyes. Rude as it was, when Fergus spoke again, Cadryn didn't look up, but he heard the man take a seat. “What you did for us—what you're still doing for us, as Warden-Commander, I want you to know some of us understand, and do appreciate it. I wanted to offer Highever's assistance in rebuilding Amaranthine, if you would allow it.”

“That's generous,” Cadryn said. “But ill-timed, I think. Defending me in the Landsmeet is one thing, but leaping to our aid is another entirely.”

“Highever and Amaranthine were allies, once.” Fergus spoke softly, but his voice remained firm. “I would see them reunited as such, if possible. And if the Wardens lose their place in Amaranthine, where will they go? The logical answer under these circumstances would be Orlais. It is of greater benefit to Ferelden to keep the Wardens where they are.” Cadryn finally looked up again, glancing over to see Fergus sitting in another chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands loosely clasped between. It wasn't a particularly suiting posture for a noble, but it seemed to match the man's personality, and the tone of his words. “And those of us among the nobility who aren't completely corrupted could use another honest man. You seem like an honest man to me.”

Cadryn allowed himself a little smile—that almost sounded like an invitation to join some exclusive group within the nobility, but he knew better. Real-world politics were very different from Circle politics. “He was right, you know.” Keeping his eyes shaded from the light with one hand, Cadryn gave Fergus a sidelong glance. “I am a child. And a mage. Too inexperienced for any of this,” Cadryn gestured with his off hand to indicate the situation at large, “and too far removed from society to really understand it. The politics, the backstabbing, I understand that perfectly well. The list of allies I've had who haven't betrayed me in some fashion is short indeed, and everyone on it has wielded a blade or a staff at my side, so you'll have to forgive me if I find this charity strange. We are effectively strangers, after all. It reeks of a trap, to me.”

Looking away to the window, Fergus hesitated, no words in response to such an open admission. Cadryn had purposefully given more away than was actually said, a calculated risk. He desperately wanted to believe Fergus was sincere in his offer of an alliance, but refused to hope for it. Eyes cast down, and a carefully neutral expression coming over his face, Fergus said, “My brother was your age. And he would've made a fine Teyrn, even then. He died defending my wife and son from Howe's men. Slaughtered like lambs, all of them. He was a gentle man, but stern when necessary, and he had all the qualities of a desirable ruler, excusing his utter disregard for locked doors.” Looking up, Fergus caught his gaze, and Cadryn thought he saw tears in the Teyrn's eyes. “What I have heard of you as a person, not simply the stories, reminds me of him. I didn't hope to replace him—it is impossible, and I would never want to—but I had hoped to count his equal as an ally after today. If I was mistaken, then I apologize.” Cadryn couldn't hold that gaze, had to look away, for the intensity of it. “But I think you have misunderstood what I'm offering. Aedan absorbed all his skill as a politician from living in the midst of it. You need a guiding hand, and Eamon and Teagan are too far away from Amaranthine to be of any use to you. Whatever help you need, I'm offering. If Highever has strong and fair neighbors, then we really will have peace.”

“I can't simply trust you so thoroughly on a whim, even though you've been a great help already. But I can try.”

“I don't think I expected any more than that. Thank you.” Standing, Fergus grimaced. “You look terrible, by the way. You should leave. Nathaniel is doing an excellent job at pretending to be you; you won't be missed overmuch.”

~*~

Cadryn slept like a dead man, waking only to ease the itch for lyrium (which wasn't helping matters, surely, but he couldn't help himself any more), until some time around noon the next day. He still felt out of sorts, off balance internally, but made his way to the estate's kitchen to beg something light out of the cook. She was an older elven woman, bent by years of labor, but she smiled and nodded pleasantly, made him sit down in the kitchen while she cooked. Cadryn ended up staring into a cup of wine cut with a little water, which she'd plied on him, “For color,” before starting her work, and when she spoke again he startled so badly he nearly knocked the cup over.

“If you pardon my curiosity, m'Lord, what happened to that young elven lad who was with you before?”

Considering he hadn't so much as set foot in the estate before, leaving all details of the running and maintaining to others, her statement was enough of a shock that he stuttered, “How--”

With a little chuckle she explained, “Do you think Shianni could keep silent that she knew the Warden-Commander and his affairs? Sweet thing, but she doesn't know when to stop running her mouth.”

“We parted ways,” Cadryn said, tone dull. “I'd prefer not to speak of it.”

She nodded, and started in on a steady prattle about news from the Alienage. Cadryn smiled to himself, a little confused at her forward behavior, but pleased. He'd never really distinguished between elves and humans, not after Shianni and Soris' acceptance of him as a friend in childhood, and in the Circle had often failed utterly to note any difference at all, despite being observant. Instead of lumping people into groups by race, he'd distinguished them by “shorter than me” and “closer to my height”--which he still did, on occasion. While little of the news mattered, he was still interested, and her voice was pleasant. It distracted from the ache in his head, at least, and made it easier to ignore the open wound her asking after Zevran prodded.

When Nathaniel entered she trailed off, focused a little more seriously on her work, and the other man didn't seem to notice. He pulled up a chair next to Cadryn, and asked, “Feeling any better?” They hadn't spoken since just after the Landsmeet.

“Workable,” Cadryn answered.

“Good.” Nathaniel leaned back in his chair slightly, glancing to the elven woman, who began humming softly to indicate that she wasn't listening. “We've been asked to wait a week for the placement of a Chantry observer, so they can return to Vigil's Keep with us. I've also received a letter from Teyrn Cousland pledging aid in rebuilding Amaranthine City. I hear you spoke at length yesterday?”

“Privately,” Cadryn said. “Do you know him at all? Is he trustworthy?”

“I know his family valued honor and loyalty as the highest virtues. If Fergus is anything like his father, then you could ask for no one better at your side, politically.”

Looking down into his cup, by now half-drained, Cadryn nodded slightly. “He told me I seemed like a good man. I'm not used to people touting my virtues—I'm used to them fingering my flaws like a worker at the Pearl.”

Nathaniel laughed, a short, surprised sound, and the cook coughed to cover her own sound of surprise. Looking up at her slender back, Cadryn said, “It's alright. If I don't want you to hear something, I simply won't say it in your presence. Anything less is rude.”

“Yes, m'Lord.”

“Just Cadryn,” he told her. “Ser if you have to use an honorific.”

“Yes, Ser.”

Shaking his head, Cadryn looked back to Nathaniel, who looked torn between confusion and amusement, a small smile on his face. “So. A week?”

“Yes.” Nathaniel seemed to remember himself, straightened in his chair a little. “A week.”

“I can only think of one thing I'd want to do with a week in Denerim.”

~*~

Nathaniel stood to one side, arms crossed, refusing to sit because the whole ordeal made him highly uncomfortable. It was disturbing, more than a little disgusting, and he grimaced at the thought that he'd once considered undergoing this barbaric ritual, in his days in the Free Marches.

The building was clean, well-lit from large paned glass windows that must have been expensive and told a great deal about the shop keep's success. It was new, too, destroyed by looting around the docks immediately after the Blight and rebuilt in the months since. Cadryn sat astraddle a padded bench, eyes closed and jaw set, appearing almost meditative. An elven man just beginning to show his years sat at his left, applying ink with a series of very tiny needles in a design across the side and top of Cadryn's shoulder. Each jab made Nathaniel shudder—he was no stranger to pain, and didn't fear it, but this seemed masochistic.

That the elf owned the shop had surprised Nathaniel at first, but he came highly recommended from the Pearl's Sanga—apparently an associate of Cadryn's, which piqued Nathaniel's curiosity as to just what sort of man the Commander really was—and the deft motions of his slender hands quickly dismissed Nathaniel's doubts.

More worrisome was the Commander's physical state. By necessity he'd come dressed in plain clothes (as a commoner, no less, much to Nathaniels' chagrin, but at the same time he understood why), and now sat on the bench nude to the waist. Nathaniel hadn't expected scars on a mage, especially not the large, old ones across his broad back, or the three prominent marks on his chest, quite clearly from deeply-seated arrow wounds, ones that had required a good deal of cutting to remove. And while the Commander had grown more wan in subtle ways since their time in the Silverite Mines, seeing him unclothed drove home the state of his health. Hardly more than thin muscle stretched over broad bones, he certainly wasn't starving himself, but couldn't possibly be well at this size.

Whatever was wrong, he showed no outward sign of it otherwise, and Nathaniel wondered for a moment if perhaps Cadryn's insistence on his presence here was some sort of cry for help.

But the Commander smiled. “You've been strangely silent, Nathaniel. Do the needles bother you so much?”

“It looks painful,” he confessed. “I don't understand why you would subject yourself to it.”

“The tattoos on my face hurt a great deal more, believe me.” Still smirking, he continued, “The Dalish use tattooing as a rite of passage, you know. They call it vallaslin, blood writing. If an elf cannot stand the pain of having her face tattooed in silence, she isn't fit to be called an adult yet.”

“But those aren't Dalish symbols,” Nathaniel said, still searching for some meaning.

“No. They're sacred to the tribe my family descends from.” Smile falling just a little, taking on a melancholy quality, Cadryn's eyes opened to barest slits of green. “Funny, that I should feel more kinship for men and women centuries dead than my own living flesh and blood.”

“Not so strange at all,” the artist muttered. “You're a Circle mage right? What did they do for you but give you up? Your elders at least left you with a legacy. It's the same for us.”

Cadryn's smile returned. “Ma serannas.”

With a snort, the artist shook his head. “Don't get all weepy on me, Ser. The ink might run.”

~*~

At the end of the week both tattoos were done, the larger one across Cadryn's left shoulder and one trailing down the inside of his right hip, provocatively positioned,but he only expected one other person to see it, aside from himself and the artist—someone who would surely take an amused delight in the bold placement. Soft bandages covered the tender work, protecting it until the flesh fully healed, and the artist had sent him off with a warning against healing magic for a few days, for fear of causing scarring around the tattoos. So he returned to the estate in better spirits than usual, ready to face the necessary politics of the evening before their departure.

But there was a Templar in the entry hall, having a hushed discussion with Nathaniel, and Cadryn's heart leaped into his mouth. This is really happening. At this point he was more concerned for Anders and Velanna. They were Wardens, so the Chantry could do little to them, but between the three of them life could be unpleasant for some time.

The Templar had his helmet held in the crook of one arm, and from behind Cadryn saw only long hair pulled back into an exceptionally tidy braid, a rich brown streaked with gray. Surprising, as Templars were usually so clean-cut.

Nathaniel made pointed eye contact, and Cadryn composed himself, stepped up. The Templar turned to greet him with a nod, and in a grizzled voice said, “Commander,” more respect there than he'd expected.

The Templar wore a short beard that hugged his jawline, and blue eyes twinkled out of a smiling, heavily structured face. He was handsome in the distinguished fashion of a man acquiring age with grace, as Varel had been, marked with laugh lines and crows feet and a nose that had been broken at some point and poorly set. But he carried himself well, with no sign of the lyrium-borne dementia a Templar of his age should carry.

“And you are to be my observer?” Cadryn asked, and offered his hand in greeting. “I can't say I'm pleased, unfortunately, but I won't let that get in the way of treating you civilly.”

The Templar's smile fell a little, confusion clouding his face for a moment, and Cadryn began to worry that he'd simply missed the signs of lyrium dementia. Someone either had it in for him or cared enough to send a useless Templar, if such were the case. The Templar took his hand, and drew him forward into a hug, awkward as Cadryn was slightly taller. “Cadryn,” he whispered, and Cadryn thought he heard tears in the man's voice. “I told you, didn't I? Great  
things.”

“Aduran?” For a moment Cadryn gaped dumbly, trying to sort all this out in his head. He hadn't seen the Templar in years, since their talk about the nature of magic, since the Templar had opened his eyes to the Chantry's manipulations. And by now he should be dead at the hands of Maleficarum or in Orlais, lyrium-addled—he'd heard nothing from Aduran, no letters, nothing.

“I jumped at the chance when I heard what they were doing,” Aduran said, pushing away. “And no one questioned it. I've got a few years left in me before the lyrium catches up in earnest, but I've outlived my usefulness in the field.” He paused for a dark chuckle. “It was either off to Orlais early or something like this.” Aduran clapped him on either shoulder, just barely missing the new tattoo (for which Cadryn was incredibly grateful), and gave him an appraising glance. “Look at you! You're huge! I could still turn you over my knee if I had to, last I saw you, but now I doubt it.”

Clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably, Nathaniel said, “I take it you know each other?”

“This is Ser Aduran,” Cadryn explained, still a little bewildered himself. “He was part of the squad of Templars that brought me to the Circle Tower. We kept in touch for a while—what happened?”

“I didn't want to risk getting you into any trouble, with your peers or the other Templars,” Aduran said. “The Chantry considers any sort of friendly contact fraternization. Mentoring a young boy certainly fell into that purview. But I see you turned out well enough without me.”

At Cadryn's obvious confusion Nathaniel interrupted with, “Shall we retire to a more comfortable setting to continue this discussion?”

“Yes,” Cadryn quickly agreed. “Let's.”


	5. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran makes his presence known in Antiva in spectacular fashion.

Slipping in through a window was foolish, perhaps a little suicidal, and that made it an excellent plan. These elaborate, large glass windows only came in one style, and the only way to permanently seal them required driving a long and unsightly nail through the sash. Even then, one couldn't be sure. Regardless, Master Evaristo was far too vain to ever allow so unsightly a thing in her villa outside Antiva City. So Zevran was able to slip the window open easily after a light application of acid at the points, the lower portion of the window falling inward. He caught it carefully, slipping from his perch in the trellis vining up near the window to the sill, and bore the heavy pane down to the floor as he slipped in, no more sound to his motions than a mouse's sneeze.

And he was so calm now, so certain, so unlike when he'd left Denerim.

:::

He'd fled the city in mild terror, afraid for what might happen to Cadryn through others. He'd left by boat the very next day, refusing to give them a chance to make a compelling argument for him to stay, and the trip north was nerve wracking. After a week he'd become convinced there were no Crows or Crow spies on the boat, and began setting down a strategy based on what he knew about the Masters when he'd left Antiva.

He disembarked in Rialto as opposed to going all the way to Antiva City, eager to get some news before he reached the Crows' seat of power. And the night he made land they attacked again, this time more serious, a trained team bursting into his room at an inn.

But he'd seen several people tipping a particular serving girl a little too generously, and expected something. So when the door opened a choking gas trap exploded in the team's faces, and Zevran was out the window as they recovered, taking the rough stone wall with only moderate difficulty—he was out of practice at this freehand climbing, but not so much as to doubt his own abilities. Archers were posted to watch the entrances and exits, three of them total, and Zevran took the first in silence, creeping up and clamping a hand over the woman's mouth before slicing her throat with his dagger. She hit the roof top with a little gasp, and any lingering doubt or fear fled as the others turned.

He was on them quickly, disarming the nearest and pinning the man's hands, using him as a shield to reach the other, then shoving them both from the roof to messy ends on the ground. Aiming for a balcony across the narrow street Zevran threw himself off after, landed in a roll amidst potted aromatic herbs clattering and breaking with a violent noise. He dropped from the bottom railing of the balcony to the street, and was off and away before his pursuers reached the edge of the roof looking for him. One or two ground observers he identified and dealt out silent ends, swinging around behind them and taking them from the shadows so they couldn't give away his route.

No, as he left town after a sleepless, bloody night, Zevran decided he'd never felt more alive, adrenaline coursing through him and mind clear and full of purpose for the first time since Cadryn had left for Amaranthine.

This was the right course of action, and no room for doubt remained.

:::

The carpet was thick, muffled his steps, a rich red color that matched the other plush furnishings and dark woods of the room. This was a study of some sort, richly appointed, but the books looked dusty as if they saw little use. It was, fortunately, exactly as described. Evaristo took her apprentices young, and it had been a simple matter to catch one and wring the building's details from him. Moving between a reading desk and the wall, he felt around for the gap in the thick carpet the apprentice had described, found those edges and hooked his fingers into the slots around the trapdoor beneath, pulling the panel out of the floor slowly. Even the soft sounds of the wood clacking made him flinch—too silent to carry, surely, but it was more noise than he wanted.

Vain as she was, Evaristo was no fool. Quite the opposite: all her wealth and bravado made her a peculiar type of target amongst the Crows. No one would ever risk an assault on her, but the woman took precautions like sleeping in a converted servant's closet instead of her spacious suite of rooms. The trapdoor here dropped directly into it, her escape route in times of need (going exactly as Zevran had entered the building), and no one knew of it, supposedly. Most of the Masters were too old to remember being an adventurous and slightly rebellious apprentice, of course.

The apprentice had described the room sufficiently that Zevran made a blind drop into the darkness, landing on her bed, knees planted to either side of the sleeping Master, dagger poised to slip through her throat with most of his weight behind it. When he landed she wasn't there, and he had to abandon his dagger embedded in the mattress, bringing up the sword in his primary hand to deflect a blow in the dark, no more than the whistle of a fine blade and a flash of pale reflection in the dark. But steel meeting dragonbone rang loud, and Evaristo's snarl cut just as sharply through the silence. “What sort of deaf fool do you take me for, apprentice?”

Zevran had come prepared, perhaps not for this scenario but for something like it, and he drew his second dagger from the sheath that lay horizontal across his back, darting in with it to force her back so he could gain his feet in the tiny room. “No fool, my dear, just as I am no apprentice.”

And he could hear her smile in the dark, following the flash and ring of another strike as she pressed in on him. Zevran remembered her fighting with a saber and poniard, some Orlesian style the woman had picked up in her youth, and wondered at the absence of the smaller blade, nervous about the idea of her keeping it hidden until he'd had time to forget about it altogether. “So the rumors go. Hero.” Scoffing, she pressed in again, strike coming in high, and Zevran caught her blade between his, pushed her back. They needed more room, he needed more room, because he needed room to give her. With the Master's style, half-duelist, she could eat great expanses of ground with her every thrust, and he would have to relent some to pull her in. “Or is it simply hero ****er?”

“Such language does not suit you, my dear.” There, his back to the door, and on the next swing from Evaristo he rolled his blades up so they didn't fill his hands quite so fully, caught her arm and used their combined weight and momentum to break through the door and tumble out into the hall. Zevran had been expecting the motion, so he rolled with it, threw her off harshly and came to his feet in a single smooth motion. “And do not pretend you have never taken a tumble with a mark or a partner.” Seeing her in proper light told the woman's age, her blond hair graying, face no longer broad and sensual but wrinkling and gaunt.

She had been the first master to express interest in him, and he had spent all of a week here at her villa, still a frightened child. He had failed her tests, specifically the one that required him to cry and let himself be broken by the slide of her strong, calloused hands over young flesh—even at that age she hadn't been the first, and he knew she wouldn't be the last—and so she'd sent him back to the pens, the overcrowded hovels where the unclaimed apprentices slowly wasted away under only the most basic care and generalized training. Though he had no fear of her specifically, her attempts to break him had become a vivid point in a string of abuse marked by such moments, something he had simply buried.

Before Zevran could bring his sword down and end her she rolled away, came up to her feet sprightly, as if the age that marked the human so clearly had done little to her reflexes. She drew the poniard from a sheath on her thigh, then drove forward, eating up ground with her stride just as he'd remembered.

Zevran danced back nimbly, surprising himself at how easily he avoided or blocked her strikes. Oh, it was difficult, surely, but Evaristo was a Master. “You never learned, apprentice. Sex is a tool, not a crutch. Can it help you now?” She eventually scored a long, shallow cut across his ribs with the very tip of her saber, but Zevran slid around the blade and past as she did it, thrusting in with his dagger, meaning to gore her with it. Evaristo moved to block it with a bracer, but she wore none, rudely awoken from sleep, and the dagger bit deep into the flesh of her forearm.

What she represented, Zevran was surprised and pleased to find, he was no longer afraid of. His only memories of her were pain, those dry, soft hands in places they had no right being, and then the greater pain of rejection, of returning to the pens where things were even worse. “I could teach you a few things,” Zevran said, a twinkle in his eye as he caught her blade again. No, he realized, and a surge of emotion at the thought granted him strength, like that first breath of fresh, cool air after leaving Orzammar. What she and the Crows in general represented no longer held any power over him: he had a place to belong, a place where he was needed and valued for more than his swords and seduction, where he was accepted unconditionally, and now this was the first step of many to securing that future.

Zevran stepped inside her guard after batting her sword away, buried his dagger up to the hilt in her chest and bore her to the ground with his sword at her throat. “You are only the first of many,” he hissed, smiling madly. “No more than a stone on the road. I will kill my way to the top, and from there cast the rest down.”

Howling, she beat at him, her cut forearm too weak to hold the poniard any more and the saber knocked from her other hand, but she lashed out violently with fists and feet and even tried to bite him. By the time the fellows of her cell arrived, though, she was mewling weakly, sobbing without tears. “We are Antiva,” she choked out. “You cannot kill a country.”

“You may watch me from the Maker's embrace.”

Zevran snatched up her discarded saber in his off hand when the dagger proved too difficult to remove, spun and rose to meet his first new attacker in a clatter of blades, pushed the Crow back and took a swipe at his gut that Zevran honestly didn't expect to connect. When it did, and the Crow stumbled back further clutching at the wound, shocked to see so much dark blood blooming across his stomach, Zevran moved on. One he took with a pommel strike that collapsed part of the man's windpipe, others he simply disabled, striking for tendons or slicing across the grain of muscle to sever it. Most of them, though, he left dead and dying, Evaristo curled on the floor where he'd left her, choking and sputtering blood, wide-eyed as she watched him tear through the bulk of her little Crow fiefdom, her little reject, the one too soft to embrace their ways and too jaded to be broken.

She did cry, in rage, when she saw some of her men and women, so well trained, so broken to her beck and call, run. That they should be more afraid of this failure than of her, despite the fact that she clearly lay dying, could only mean that in this last moment she had lost. She had failed, and that made them equals.

The boy who had been hers for a week and found wanting, now a man and more than her match, tore her little kingdom down around her, and in her moment of dying Evaristo saw in his swings and his strikes, the set of his jaw, the smile in his eyes, that this was death come to the Crows.


	6. Chapter 6

I couldn't come up with a good title for this one.  Thanks to Tanith for making sure my head's on straight.  Next chapter should be Cadryn, then back to Zev.  Also, I'm aware cassat and qassatat come from the same root.  They are very different, however (the former being a filled cake and the latter being a savory, bowl-shaped pastry).

\-------

Zevran didn't stay to claim Evaristo's place as a Master, nor did he linger long enough to do more than take what was absolutely necessary. Servants and the more intelligent Crows had fled, and he let them do as they will. The very smartest would leave Antiva and let their fellows think them dead when someone came to collect the bodies and squat on Evaristo's cell. The foolish would take his message to the other Masters. And that was fine. Let them fear him.

His next target would be whoever ran the pens now; it was of course, a blow to the structure of the Crows, and it would require some thought. While the Master who ran the pens had never been skilled with a blade, getting close without hurting the unclaimed apprentices—who were far from innocent, but still too young for him to consider killing now that he'd been given leave to develop something crudely resembling a moral code—would be a challenge. That meant poison, likely, but he needed to know more about who ran the pens and what habits they kept before delivering it.

Hiding the tattoo on his face was a small thing, covering it and then making a new one with careful kohl to make himself seem Dalish. He dyed his hair a darker color more typical of the roaming clans (now that he was more worldly, he knew the spun gold hair inherited from his mother to be exceptional among the Dalish). Careful makeup and a change of dress made a new man out of Zevran. He was a young Dalish wide-eyed and foolish on his first trip into the city. It was easy to affect an accent, too, now that he'd spent a little time abroad.

It was an easy thing, then, to idle in an area of the market where the Crow children were known to practice their quick fingers and quick wit, picking pockets and making distractions for their fellows. It thinned their numbers (for many of the youngest and the older, overconfident, got caught), trained them in speed and stealth, and exercised their minds in picking the right targets and generating distractions. It made them compete and cling together, developing the rivalry and distrustful camaraderie the Crows encouraged. He needed no distraction, of course, and someone took him for an easy mark, grimy little fingers deftly slipping into his belt pouch while he bartered with some merchant—and the child screamed when he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her up until only her toes touched the ground.

She was a human child, blond, fair skinned and foreign under her street filth and her tattered dress, perhaps nine years at the oldest. She wailed and struggled, but didn't dare kick, since it would put all of her weight on her wrist.

“Shemlen brat,” he spat. “Haven't your people taken enough?” And he let his expression soften, seeming to take in the details of her state—in reality, he'd been watching her approach, and learning things about her by her behavior and her appearance. She'd been with the Crows a while, because she had some swagger and her movements were light. She wasn't broken yet, none of the hollow, lost look to her. And she was likely an orphan, from her non-native appearance, bright blue eyes and scattering of freckles, probably obtained at no cost to theCrows. And they probably drove that home, that she was worth only what she made herself worth to them. “How long since you've eaten?”

She calmed, and looked away, eyelashes fluttering and eyes moistening, but Zevran knew the game she was playing too well. “Two days.”

“And not much then, I'd wager. If you promise to keep those sticky fingers away from my belt, I'll buy you something, alright?” She nodded, and he let go. “But just the once. And this isn't a handout. Just don't steal from anyone else today.”

They ended up sitting on the edge of a fountain, the girl holding a qassatat so big she had to use both hands. She ate in silence, and in an attempt to break that silence Zevran started showing her coin tricks, until the little girl's expression brightened and she laughed, muttering around a mouthful, “Show me how to do that one!” So he obliged.

Between bites she answered Zevran's question of, “Do you have any family?”

She nodded. “A big family.”

“Don't they feed you?” Innocent concern, hidden under curiosity—too many layers to this deception, but necessary, even against a child, since she'd surely tell her handlers about the curious Dalish man.

“Just what we earn.” Despite her ragged looks, she seemed very well fed when held against Zevran's memories of his time in the pens, something he noted with a little resentment.

“I see,” he said, making it clear he understood and didn't want to pry further, and instead asked, “Who looks after you?”

“Our aunt,” she muttered around a mouthful, “and we live in our grandfather's house. She doesn't like it there, though. She says it’s boring, and she doesn't like our grandfather. One of these days, she says, she's going to take some of us away, the very best.”

When she'd finished the qassatat they parted, the little girl scurrying off. Zevran followed at a distance, tailing her carefully. She went back to the area of the market where they'd first met, and he searched about for a good vantage point to watch from.

Grubby children started filtering out around the same time, and Zevran followed again at a distance, doing his best to stay out of sight. The children were training, after all, and a sharp-eyed one might see him, especially since this disguise made him stick out somewhat. He didn't follow them all the way, either--he just needed to get close enough to see the building.

The pens had moved, of course--they moved them at irregular intervals. In Zevran's childhood they had been on the south end of town, in the slums built up around the tanneries and other unsanitary workshops which had once been just outside of Antiva City. This was a villa closer to the center of the city. Just before Zevran left for Ferelden the family who owned it had met an unfortunate, pre-meditated, well paid for end, and the place looked as if it had suffered in their absence.

From across the street Zevran caught a brief glimpse of a human woman, dark curls spilling over her slender shoulders, a ragged blue dress a thin disguise for the obvious care she paid to her appearance, herding the children in.

~*~

  
One week of observation from the roof of a villa across the street told Zevran little about the comings and goings of the Master who ran the pens. All he saw were the children, let out by the same lady Crow, gathered up by them. She laid on abuse and praise as she saw necessary (which Zevran, of course, saw in her manner and bearing, as he could not hear from his lofty perch). He came to admire the dark curls against her relatively pale skin, certain motions she made that implied grace and strength beneath her domestic disguise. Zevran could only conclude that she had been misplaced, angered someone in her apprenticeship and settled here as an assistant to the Master over the pens in punishment.

She, he decided, would be his best source of information, and his best way to get to the Master. He continued watching them, but chose a day the next week to slip one of the children a note, luring him out of the streets with a coin trick or two, asking, “Would you like a very important mission from a fellow Crow?”

The child answered an eager, “Yes!” for the child was too young or too eager to please to understand just how far his suspicion should extend.

Zevran handed the child a small, sealed note, which the child clutched in his grubby hands like some fragile prize. “Take that note back to the Lady Crow who helps run the pens. Can you do that for me?” When the child nodded enthusiastically, Zevran smiled, told him. “Check your pocket.”

The child groped at his pockets with one hand, found the large, strange coin, and marveled at it for a moment. Zevran counted on the fact that someone would beat it out of him, and it would most likely make its way to the Lady Crow rather than the Master. Finding a Fereldan sovereign on the child was simply insurance against her doubting he was who he claimed to be.

~*~

  
Three more days he watched. On the fourth, instead of watching the old villa, he watched a particular piazza nearer to the docks, a busy place, and waited.

The Lady Crow wandered into the piazza around mid-afternoon, a basket hanging from one elbow half-full of things, as if she'd been shopping. She scanned the crowd, and when she didn't sight her promised Crow seemed lost. Zevran wanted to be sure no one was with her, that no one had followed her, and as she left, he felt reasonably assured that she was alone. He clambered down the back of the building on the little architectural flourishes along the wall, a rough climb and one he wouldn't want to make without gloves, and came out of an alleyway to walk alongside her.

“Apologies, my dear. A man in my position must be cautious.”

“I've heard of you,” she said. Zevran found her voice soft and sweetly seductive, the taste of a fine dessert wine made into sound, and found himself wondering what she'd done for them to waste so powerful a weapon. He could imagine her full lips properly painted, her attire a little less modest (but not too much—she seemed the sort who could entice even more by revealing less), and how breathtaking she would look in soft, warm light instead of the harsh Antivan sun. “They say you're killing Crows. Are you here to kill him?”

“That depends, my dear, entirely on how you react to my proposal. I--”

“Yes.”

“What?” Zevran couldn't contain his surprise. He'd suspected the Lady Crow was malcontent with her lot, but such immediate acceptance was unexpected and suspect.

“So long as you have a good plan, I mean,” she continued. “I want the old bastard dead more than anyone, especially if it frees me from that pit—worse than the Black City, that place is. I should be out charming my way into the hearts and beds of nobles with a poison tongue, not wasting as a nursemaid to fledgelings.”

“Well, ah, I see.” Zevran took a second to compose himself, and wondered if he should put any stock in her vehemence and sincerity. “You realize the Crows will kill you for helping me, yes?”

“Then I'll just have to help you kill them until they stop coming after us, yes? That was the general idea, I take it?”

“Indeed, that was my plan. And this Master would be a serious blow to the Crows.”

She nodded, and they both glanced as they crossed another piazza, looking for undue attention. Zevran saw none, and she seemed comfortable, so he assumed she saw exactly what she wanted. “His name is Sandro, and I do not know what house he came from before this. He only leaves the building once a month, to go to dinner. I am obligated to go with him, to see to his safety, but he likes to pretend he is some lower noble, and I a high priced courtesan.” She turned her head to spit vehemently, and Zevran didn't need to ask about why she wanted the man dead.

“I assume he goes somewhere different every month?”

“Yes,” she said. “It would be best to take him then. There is a place just outside the area of the docks that is known for its cassata?”

“They have not moved?” Zevran would've expected such a place to relocate, with the docks slowly scrabbling inward with the shoreline's advance. “Yes, I know the place.”

“I will try to push him to dine there. It will be at least two more weeks before the urge takes him, so you should have plenty of time to prepare. I assume we will have no contact between now and then?”

“It would be safest.” Zevran confirmed, and she offered him a kiss on the temple as a silent sign of compliance. “Your name?” he asked. Zevran intended to find out as much about her as possible, still not sure how much he trusted the woman.

“Amidra, of no house. We are very alike, you and I-- deadly disappointments.” Deadly indeed, the smile she gave him, beautiful and full of promises. He couldn't keep himself from undressing her in his mind, with that wicked, beautiful curve to her lips, the light in her glittering brown eyes.

They parted at the next intersection, and Zevran didn't know if he should be pleased or upset that a vision of more familiar, harder flesh replaced the soft curves of her in his mind's eye so very quickly. I miss you, amore, but we are so very far apart—can I not even look? Zevran shook his head, smiling softly, amused at the little affectation, as if Cadryn could hear his very thoughts across the distance. Soon, amore. I swear it.


	7. Chapter 7

Slow, short chapter here. Thanks to Jen for making sure my marbles are still in the bag. Next chapter is Zev.

\-----

  
The year drew on, the nights grew long, the wind cold, and Cadryn’s time at the Keep grew lonelier. Nathaniel was better suited to running the Arling than Cadryn could ever be, so Nathaniel took over whatever duties he wished, until the actual Arl was doing little more than reviewing correspondence and signing papers. Holding court, previously a chore and a bore, became one of the highlights of his life, but his enthusiasm for it didn’t grow. Knowing that he would likely need to leave the Wardens in Alistair’s care again, Cadryn let Alistair continue acting as Warden Commander, delegating tasks to the other man such that they were orders from a superior or requests from a friend instead of responsibilities placed on him. It worked, after a while, this treatment giving Alistair enough confidence to do more than stutter at Justice’s disturbing presence or Velanna’s invective or Sigrun and Anders’ playful behavior. Oghren’s support, backing up everything Alistair said or did, helped a great deal, and much as he often wanted to knock some sense into the dwarf Cadryn began to develop a little more respect for him. The man really was more suited to this lifestyle, and the strange state of his relationship with his new wife and child seemed to fit him, even if it wasn’t ideal.

With both the Arling and the Wardens in good hands, and Cadryn doing his best not to interfere for any number of reasons, that left Cadryn to catch up with Aduran. Despite the years between them there wasn’t much to say, and Cadryn knew the Templar would see through his ruse if they grew too close again, would see the lyrium abuse and lay bare all his wounds in trying to right it. So Cadryn withdrew, keeping to himself mostly, pretending that he was busy with something or other--he’d always been good at lying, and Cassius wasn’t sharing any secrets.

Winter settled in, wrapping around the Arling softly at first with gentle snows and relatively mild weather, and in the afternoon of the first real snowfall Cadryn found himself walking Cassius out in the fields around the Keep. Trudging through snow halfway to his knees behind the happily romping mabari, a light scattering of snowflakes still caught in the icy breeze, came as a welcome distraction. Standing out away from the Keep, staring out across the surrounding hills and any sign of the Blight covered by undisturbed white, unable to hear anything but the soft breeze and his own breath and the mabari panting as he bounded around, Cadryn felt a sort of peace settle over him. He was alone, for a moment, and it was easy to pretend that he was beholden to no one, no responsibilities or wants or needs. For that moment, it was a comforting sensation, and he was content.

Of all things, the cold of the chain around his neck stirred him from that state, reminded him of his humanity, that he wasn’t alone--and was. No one really needed him at the Keep, now, and it was growing more and more difficult to disguise his addiction with the increasing doses, to avoid others and to come up with some pretense or other. He was used up, empty as the barren, blighted land under all that uniform snow. There were no tears, nothing a normal person would recognize as sorrow, just bleak acceptance of fact. Cadryn started walking.

After a while he could no longer hear Cassius, and when he looked back didn’t see the hound, and a spike of fear settled into relief. Let the mabari happily chase rabbits in the snow and run home worried to Alistair later--it simplified things. He couldn’t see the Keep, either, only his own footsteps coming down a long hill and the growing shadows of an early sunset behind the last storm’s receding clouds.

The wind began to pick up with the setting sun, whispering softly, soothing voices, calming, and the cold started creeping in through the heavy layers of his clothing. Cadryn wrapped his arms around himself, stuffed his gloved hands up under his armpits to keep them warm. He kept walking, because the motion felt good, he felt like he was doing something for once.

A weak sun crawled over the horizon and bled out over the snow before he realized the cold was coming from within, that the wind really was whispering, and that he had passed from the world of the waking at some point.

I can give you what you seek. Snow faded into sand, scraggly trees casting sickly shadows became strangely-crafted stone buildings, people bustled in the streets and Cadryn found himself sitting in a wrought iron chair that was just a little too small. Zevran leaned across the table, traced the tattoos on one side of Cadryn’s face with his fingertips before kissing him, and all the ice he’d gathered inside while walking through the fields of Amaranthine melted under the fire of Zevran’s passion.

They parted after a long time, no more than a breathless gasp apart, and Zevran whispered, “I could give you this.”

“You’re not real.” But Cadryn’s quavering voice betrayed his want, trembling hands reaching out to touch the elf even as he rejected the image.

Zevran laughed, throwing his head back, just out of Cadryn’s reach, and it was real, the full and infectious sound of the Antivan’s mirth just as he remembered it, and the smoldering look Zevran pinned him with told Cadryn he was in some sort of trouble for that. “My dear Warden, I am as real as you are willing to believe.”

“Demon,” he whispered, and stood from the table. “Stop this. This isn’t what I want.”

He was standing in the snowy hills of Amaranthine again, only weak starlight above and all dead silence. I can give you what you really want. Another voice, this one familiar and fear chilled Cadryn just as surely as the unnaturally still air. Freedom. They have broken you, as I knew would happen. Mages have become no more than playthings, after all, toys to be used and tossed aside by either other mortals or my ilk. For all your spells and your wit, you’ve no real power. We can change that, and we can free you.

Oblivion, the other voice whispered, feminine and sweet, and he felt a long-nailed, finely boned hand stroking through his hair, a reassuring touch, warm breath tickling one ear even though she spoke in his mind. We will give you what you truly desire. Let us in.

They gave him a taste of it, nonexistence, not the long sleep and mystery of death but simple nonbeing. It was pure and soft and cool as the snow, it was true rest, true peace, and yet nothing, and it made him weep with want.

“No.” It was reflexive, but Cadryn had enough conviction left to will his surroundings to warp and change, to become the familiar camp from during the Blight as they’d pitched it in the Brecilian Forest. Troubled as they were, these had been better times. It was a safe place.

They didn’t follow, and Cadryn settled down by the fire to warm himself, but the ice stayed inside, heavy.

~*~

  
Cadryn woke in his own bed in Vigil’s keep, buried under a stack of quilts, Cassius nuzzled up next to him on top of everything. On waking the hound began licking his face, tail wagging eagerly. By sound, someone sitting at the small desk against the wall put down a book, the weight of it making a little ‘tmp’ on the wood, chairlegs scraped on the floor as they stood, footsteps, the door opened and closed again.

Knowing he wouldn’t get another chance, Cadryn pushed himself up, and seeing no one else in the room forced himself out of bed, limbs shaking and weak. The air seemed too warm. Stumbling into the outer room of his apartments, the one set up as an office, he found everything as it should be, and left it in the same condition, tucking away the empty vial among the full to deal with later. He was back in bed, the covers smooth again, before anyone returned. The lyrium hadn’t made the shaking any better.

He’d never noticed before how much alike Anders and Alistair looked, but having both of them looming over him was almost disquieting, and he briefly wondered just how many Theirin bastards there could be. Anders started going through the motions of a healer, silence and a hard-set expression instead of his usual snark. Though he wasn’t used to being the subject of such attentions they were familiar, and beyond his surprise Cadryn gave Anders no trouble.

“What happened?” Alistair’s solemn expression, the undertone of anger, worried Cadryn--had he missed something while he was.... Well, he remembered walking into the cold, and sweet voices whispering tempting promises, but nothing else after sitting down at the fire.

“I went for a walk,” he croaked, surprised by the thready and worn sound of his own voice. “With Cassius. He likes snow.” It sounded very dumb, to his own ears, and weak but true.

That startled a laugh out of Anders. “That’s why they found you twenty miles out? I think the dog got tired halfway.”

“Twenty...”

“We wouldn’t have found you without Cassius.” Alistair reached over to scratch the mabari’s head, and the hound leaned into the touch with a smug sort of look.

“Twenty miles?”

“Being cold can make you do strange things. There was a boy at the monastery, maybe a year or two older than me, who tried to run away one winter. They found him frozen to death in his underthings the next morning.”

“Probably magic,” Anders offered, tones short, a little more serious again--seeing him like this was still off-putting. “Some of the things I’ve seen you do would keep you warm in a pinch.”

“But twenty miles? I must've walked all night!”

“In a straight line while hypothermic.” With a little grin Anders settled back where he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Next time I catch Oghren drinking his special brew I'm going to bet him you can stay coherent longer. Perhaps tree climbing—sounds like I'd win no matter the outcome. Anyway, everything's intact, you've--”

“--got a little bit of a fever,” Cadryn finished for him. “I do this too, you know. I expect it will amount to nothing, but we'd best keep an eye on it.” Tired as he was, Cadryn still managed to catch Anders' agitation in the set of his shoulders, the little glare layered within the other mage's almost perpetual amusement. “Thank you, Anders. I know we wouldn't be having this discussion right now without your talents.”

“You still owe the dog more.” He nodded toward Cassius, and the mabari gave an affirmative huff. “And Alistair did all the heavy lifting. My job was comparatively easy.”

“Thank you, then.” Mostly addressing Alistair, Cadryn reached out from under the quilts to grip the not-quite-Templar's forearm, a gesture between the two of them as intimate as a hug between brothers would be. Alistair ducked his head a little, embarrassed but pleased, understanding the meaning. “All of you. Unfortunately, however, this is where I ask you to leave for a moment, because grateful as I am I'd still like to piss in privacy.”

~*~

  
Cadryn was feeling the fever when he woke, shivering despite heavy quilts and a warm room, an ache in all his joints, his skin tight and slick and disgusting. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, so he pushed the quilts away, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard.

A book closing and settling against the little table against the wall startled him--all his senses seemed hyper-aware, as they had on waking the first time, sound in particular too loud. He turned to see Aduran picking up the chair and carrying it over to the bedside, not letting it scrape against the floor. “I can smell it, you know. The lyrium sweating out of you.”

Fever heightened Cadryn's sense of paranoia, and he went stiff, muscles tensing at the accusation in those words. “I don't know--”

Leaning forward, Aduran folded his hands together, catching Cadryn's gaze with his own and holding it, a certain intensity and authority there Cadryn hadn't known since he was a child. It made him nostalgic and it frightened him all at once. “Don't lie to me. We are both better than that. How long?”

Releasing a long breath unconsciously held, Cadryn suddenly found air in the room, cool and sweet inside his too-hot flesh. “Since we went into the Deep Roads in pursuit of the Mother—I was still drained from defending the Keep, but the others were even worse. It was lyrium or—or worse things.” With a grimace, Cadryn presented his left arm, which Aduran took by the wrist, inspecting the horizontal, perfectly spaced scars there, all too faint to be detected without close scrutiny and usually covered by the mage's bracers. “It’s not real blood magic—it uses something inherent to Grey Wardens. But it was clearly based on blood magic.”

Aduran examined the scars for a long time, face impassive, and Cadryn grew nervous, twitching a little, wanting to get away from Aduran's grasp and his impending disapproval. That the Templar hadn't already smote him proved him right in trusting the man, but there was still time for that. And the mage knew he likely wouldn't be able to fight the Templar, sick and weak as he was.

“Anyone who has truly lived and tells you they have never done anything deplorable is either lying about their experience or lying about their past deeds,” Aduran finally offered, and he let go of Cadryn's wrist, leaning back in his chair. “I believe you. And I have faith you wouldn't resort to it unless absolutely necessary. I wanted to believe you were more of a hero than someone like myself, though. Older generations always want better for those who succeed us.” Cadryn knew there was something unsaid there, but in his addled state couldn't make real sense of it, Aduran's grimly amused expression mostly unreadable.

Silence fell between them for a while, uncomfortable and yet easy. Things still hung unsaid, adding to the weight of the already unbreathable air, but that silence seemed to belong—or it was the fever. Uncertain, Cadryn eventually broke the silence with, “Aren't you going to berate me at the very least? Lyrium addiction and blood magic?”

“It’s more difficult than they realize, when they ask us to do the right thing. They don't understand how distasteful it really is, and what it can do to twist you or ruin you. What it takes from you.” Aduran looked away briefly, and Cadryn fancied he saw tears shimmering in the Templar's eyes, but when Aduran looked back up it seemed to have passed. “I imagine you realized that well before the oldest of those scars. I believe what you told me about the magic, I really do.” Swallowing harshly, Aduran looked away again. “And if I knew how to deal with lyrium, I wouldn't be a Templar any more.”

That silence settled again, a little more comfortable between them, but Cadryn wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or desperate--he’d expected to be scolded, for this weakness to be laid out before everyone to shame him out of it, hadn’t expected Aduran to confess his own helplessness. Two people knew, now, and Cadryn found it no relief. This seemed no different from being alone.


	8. Chapter 8

It was providence, Arturo decided, some strange sort of gift from the Maker.  He could still remember the night two weeks ago when the elf had made his first delivery, a chill rain in off the sea rattling their windows and people who wanted to be seen in their dining hall.  Of course, he had not seen the elf that night, as he had no business dealing with a simple delivery boy, but when one of the understaff came to him with a long box and said, “This was delivered for one of the guests, flowers the delivery boy said,” it was his decision on what to do with it.

“Throw it out!  For all we know they are coated in a poison dust--it would be just like that bastard Giotto to send poison for a guest and blame it on my food.”

Three days later one of their suppliers, a family of fishermen they’d dealt with since before Arturo ever set foot in the kitchen, came up short, saying the ropes on their traps had been cut.  The delivery boy was waiting to drop off a package during this exchange, ignored on the back stoop while the kitchen panicked.  Arturo grabbed his nearest expendable cook by one shoulder and said, “You, go down to the docks, find some replacement.  You,” he jabbed one meaty finger in the delivery boy’s direction, hardly taking notice of his appearance aside from the dark hair and pointed ears, “drop whatever it is you’ve got and go with him to carry it.”

The delivery boy just stared at him from the door as if in a sort of daze for a moment before finding the wherewithal to stammer, “B-b-but, Ser--”

“I will pay you enough to make up for any other errands you were to run today.  And then some.  Just go!”  And he gave the cook a shove towards the door.  The elf just stood there at the door, looking terrified, and the cook had to grab him by one arm and drag him along.

They returned with everything necessary in much less time than Arturo expected, and he paid the delivery boy well enough that a few days later he turned up at the door and stammered out to the cook who answered, “Do--do you have anything you--that you need done?”

Of course, a kitchen always needed something, and a dutiful coolie meant Arturo sent fewer of his staff out on errands.  They tested him to see how discerning an eye he had for picking out quality ingredients and found he had a knack for it, so while it was not expected of him the elf was perfectly capable of helping out the cook sent with him if necessary.  By the end of that second week he was no longer a random delivery boy, but “Kitchen Elf”, no one caring to know his name but appreciating his presence.  And they found themselves making up work.

Which was why Kitchen Elf was sitting in back in the mud room peeling root vegetables.  It was the first time Arturo had gotten a good look at him, and he found himself contemplating Kitchen Elf for a few moments from the doorway into the kitchen proper.  Kitchen Elf wasn’t as young as Arturo had first thought, and while Arturo admittedly knew very little about elves he placed the man somewhere near thirty--still a boy to him, and Arturo ran a hand through his own salt-and-pepper beard while watching the elf.  His eyes were a striking, exotic amber, but dull and often downcast, his dark hair ragged as if he cut it himself with a knife and just hardly long enough to pull back, little sprigs of it springing out to dangle in his eyes and stick out from around his ears.  He was well muscled, but still reedy and under the sun’s touch to his skin looked sallow, like a man who ate just enough and not particularly well.  From the small scar across his lip, looking as though it had been cut by a ring, and his behavior, Arturo supposed he must have been a servant or a slave at some point.

Where he came from mattered very little, so Arturo didn’t dwell on it long, turning away to get back to yelling at his understaff--and today’s threat was that he would replace them with Kitchen Elf if they didn’t straighten up.

o

  
They kept finding work for kitchen elf, of course, because he was useful and obedient and worked quickly, speaking only when spoken to and following all orders to the letter.  He was less curious than Arturo would like, but he wasn’t a cook and wouldn’t become one, so curiosity and imagination weren’t necessary.  Today was one of their busier days of the month, and he was dishwasher, a task no one envied him--but as this was Kitchen Elf, he worked without complaining and quickly enough that, while he made little progress, the pile of dishes handed off to him never grew much higher for more than a few minutes.

So when one of the waitstaff came to Arturo stammering and gesturing towards the room with the taps they used for washing, something that came out, “No plates--he’s--they--” Arturo didn’t even bother asking the distraught man to clarify, charging off to the washing room.  He found indeed, a great pile of filthy dishes, the water running unchecked and overflowing the basin,  providing a convenient noise screen for the waiter who had Kitchen Elf  backed into a corner, clothing half torn off in places, sitting on a crate and pinned there under the water’s weight as the human straddled his legs.  When fear-struck amber eyes rolled to the door Arturo jarringly realized it was the first time the elf had made eye contact with him, and “Help--” cut off by a backhand across the face the first thing he’d said that wasn’t prompted since that first day when he protested his forcible employment.

The still-greasy frying pan was in Arturo’s hand and he was halfway across the small room before he himself realized what he was doing.  The waiter was big enough to pin a slender, underfed and overworked elf, but Arturo was bigger, and the weight behind the iron pan knocked the waiter off and into the wall, where his head bounced with a surprisingly satisfying sound.  Grabbing Kitchen Elf by one arm and hauling him up, Arturo pushed him away towards the other waiter before hauling the offender up by the front of his nice jacket.

“You finish his dishes,” Arturo sneered, “and tomorrow you don’t come back.  You don’t ever come back here or I’ll serve you for the main course and tell everyone that filthy taste is because this fish is a bottomfeeder.  Are we clear?”

“The owner--”

Arturo spat in the man’s face.  “She will agree with me.  Dishes.”  The offender managed to keep his feet when Arturo dropped him, and Arturo paid him no more mind, ushering a trembling Kitchen Elf and the other waiter out to the mudroom, glaring down curious looks and leers at Kitchen Elf trying to hold up his pants and hold together his shirt.

“You don’t come in tomorrow.”

“I--”  Kitchen Elf’s mouth worked for a moment with no sound coming out, but he kept his eyes downcast even more diligently than usual.  “I’m s-sorry.”

With a sigh, Arturo put a reassuring hand on Kitchen Elf’s shoulder, but the elf flinched away from him.  “No.  I mean you stay home.  Come back the day after, but tomorrow you don’t come in.  Understand?”  A vigorous nod was all Arturo got, and he turned to the waiter.  “You get him cleaned up and make sure he gets home.  Anything happens to him, you’ll be out of a job.  Anyone hears about what happened, you’ll be out of a job.  Understand?”    The waiter gave the same response, only with more eye contact, and Arturo went back into the kitchen to synchronized gawking.

“Get to work, you lazy snoops, or I’ll take you all down to the docks and find the cruelest flogger and have every last one of you tanned!”

oo

  
Just a few days later Arturo found the waiter he’d sent to escort Kitchen Elf home bothering the poor creature, hovering at every opportunity and trying to make small talk, but Kitchen Elf’s demeanor and soft-voiced stammer would surely turn him away--Arturo kept an eye on the waiter, regardless.  Kitchen elf had become something of a pet to the restaurant, strange as that sounded--unnecessary but useful in that he made their jobs easier, and endearing in a strange way--and Arturo meant to look out for him.  The staff had been slipping him meals to take home for some time now, which Arturo turned a blind eye to.

The last thing he expected to see was the waiter whipping out a fine blue silk kerchief and slipping behind the elf, intimately close, to smooth his ragged hair back and tie it down to keep the hair and sweat out of the elf’s eyes.  While the elf stammered his thanks the waiter smoothed the kerchief down and laid a flirtatious kiss on one cheek before sauntering out.  Once the waiter had left the room Arturo could no longer contain his laughter, a harsh guffaw bursting forth at the half-mortified confusion on Kitchen Elf’s flushed face.

It startled the elf, of course, who turned and stammered, “What j-just happened?”

“You have an admirer, my boy.  Just make sure he knows his place with you.”  Kitchen Elf blushed even harder, coloring to the tips of his ears, and Arturo let him continue washing dishes.

ooo

  
Kitchen Elf was prepping and oiling pans the night Signor Sandro and his lovely mistress came in, because it was such an exceptionally busy night and they were unexpectedly short handed.  Arturo served them himself in a private room, as usual, since Signor Sandro had been visiting on a semi-regular basis since before Arturo had become chef and such a degree of personal involvement was deemed necessary by their owner when such a prestigious Crow Master came calling.  He did not fear Signor Sandro, of course, nevermind that the man was a Crow--he was even tempered and well mannered and Arturo never gave him any reason to be upset.

The mistress’ cry alerted the kitchen to a problem, and Arturo rushed out to find Signor Sandro collapsed across the table with his mistress panicking over him, two waiters trying to move the man into a reclining position.  Between a particularly beefy waiter and Arturo himself they moved the Crow to a divan against one wall in the private room  Another waiter was trying to calm the woman, and Arturo found the Crow’s lips already quite blue, his pulse gone.  He was well done choking before anyone had gotten to him, Arturo suspected, and how the woman had failed to notice he couldn’t fathom.

He went to her, settling a thick hand on her slender shoulder.  “Mistress.  We will call a physician and a carriage.  You should return home to prepare for their coming.”

The poor woman was so distraught she thought nothing of it, and obeyed his instruction.  As she was ushered out he turned to the beefy waiter and said, “He was a Crow, but his mistress is not.  We will be killed for this, so we must keep it quiet.  He was never here, she is quite mad.  If we are all adamant in this assertion, they will have no choice but to believe us.  Do you understand?”

The waiter, gone quite pale, nodded , and helped Arturo move the body quietly along the back hall to the kitchen and down to the chill room in the basement, a room enchanted with frost runes where they kept meat--and so long as they were very, very careful, he could keep the body until he came up with a way to dispose of it that didn’t involve serving it--the threat was well and good, but he’d take his chances with the Crows first.

When they turned to go Arturo nearly screamed, bit back a sound of surprise that died as a gurgle in his own throat, because Kitchen Elf was standing on the stairs, eyes downcast as always.  “I-I can--th-there’s a lady in the alienage who-who has a few pigs... they’ll eat anything...”

Which settled it.  Over the next few nights Arturo handled the macabre task of butchering Signor Sandro, and Kitchen Elf took the pieces home to toss over into the pigs’ pen in the middle of the night.  After they were finished, Kitchen Elf didn’t come back.

Arturo couldn’t blame him.

ooooo

  
Zevran came back to his room that night to find Amidra sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing  a fine, closely-tailored dress that looked more like a slip than anything currently in fashion.  It exposed a long expanse of smooth, toned legs, which she crossed in a motion calculated to draw his attention.  Her dark hair picked up mahogany highlights from the red of the gown, lips a wicked bow and still red as heart’s blood.  She was desire, plain and simple.

“What, in sweet Andraste's name,have you done to your hair?”

Her presence was expected, and so not unwelcome, but Zevran knew he would have to send her home quickly or not at all.  Running a hand through the jagged locks for emphasis, he gave her a little smile, and offered, “The dye will wash out, and hair grows back.  We must make sacrifices from time to time, yes?”

“Indeed.  Though I suppose some are more welcome than others.”  From the way her eyes roamed over him Zevran assumed that meant she had traded one master for another and found him more appealing--manipulation, certainly, and suddenly she was not a beautiful woman sitting on his bed but a Crow.  He knew all these tactics himself, after all, and was a master of them.

“Do you have somewhere safe to stay?  If not, I can find a safe house, but it is best if we reside apart for now, I think.”  Her wicked look fell into a pout, and Zevran  restrained his own triumphant smile.  She wasn’t particularly good at schooling her emotions, which he suspected was part of the reason why she’d been punished with her appointment.

“Yes,” was all but spat.  “And I have an idea for your next target.  Master Tullia is quite old, but she’s still the guild’s trapmaster and would be just as much a blow at heart and soul as Sandro.  She will be difficult, though; her cell is comprised of her best students, stolen from other masters, and they guard her jealously as a Chanter’s virtue.”

“We will need someone on the inside, if she is indeed more reclusive than your Master was.”

“Oh, trust me.”  Her wicked smile returned, and in the soft light filtering in from outside she looked more like a sleek cat disappearing into shadow than a human.  “I will give you exactly what you need.”


	9. Chapter 9

There's a significant passage of time covered here that will also be covered in Zevran's next chapter.

\---------

There was some peace to be found, it turned out, in the days of Cadryn’s recovery, and it became a habit to spend evenings holed up in the Keep’s library, organizing and cataloguing the collection until something caught his eye and he ended up distractedly reading it by the fire in the study next door into the small hours of the night. Someone took to sending tea around supper time, and leaving out a cold meal in the kitchens. Try as he might, during the daylight hours when he was still Arl and Warden Commander Cadryn couldn’t remember to find out who had started this and thank them. The little ritual made petty politics easier, and the winter storms kept most of the banns at home.

And it kept him distracted from the fact that he hadn’t felt that gnawing warden’s hunger since his first encounter with the Architect. Everything else remained, the subtle whispers of sensation around his fellow wardens and the harsher ones that signalled darkspawn, the unnerving sense of connection that slipped under his skin--but not the hunger. It couldn’t distract him from the lyrium, though.

Winter clung hard to Ferelden that year, spitting snow and icy rain even as the first greens of spring pushed up through the thawed ground, and such was the weather when Cadryn settled down into the comfy chair by the fire with an obscure history on the tribes that had inhabited Ferelden long ago and still clung to existence in the far reaches--thumbing through had revealed at least brief mention of his own ancestral tribe, and so this one held particular interest. Tea was already waiting.

When the door opened Cadryn only glanced up, rather disinterested in whatever the interruption was, and did a double-take at seeing Alistair peeking in sheepishly and Cassius excitedly trying to wiggle his way through the small opening. “You have a, um, a visitor of sorts in the front hall.”

“That doesn’t sound at all ominous,” but Cadryn put his book down anyway, not bothering to mark the page--he’d barely started. “Something no one else could handle?”

“You really should be the one to deal with this.” By the faint tremor in Alistair’s voice and how hard he was trying to sound normal, it was nothing pleasant, so Cadryn didn’t ask again before they reached the hall.

He didn’t pause, and didn’t need to understand the circumstances, seeing the two elves Alistair had brought from Denerim holding the man down between them, on his knees and dark head bowed under the Dalish elf’s hand, Aduran hovering nearby with a hand on the hilt of his sword. Others were in the hall, but unimportant--Cadryn’s full attention was immediately on this group, and at a gesture the two elves hauled the man up between them. The tingle of magic enhancing his strength mingled with adrenaline and a sense of satisfaction that he would finally get to do this was as welcome as the hopeful, weak little smile that crossed Jowan’s face just before Cadryn punched him.

The elves couldn’t keep a hold on him, and Jowan collapsed backward out of their grip under the weight of the blow. Scrabbling back towards the door, Jowan looked really, genuinely afraid now, nose set at an interesting angle and streaming blood. “You--you hit me--”

He didn’t get far before Cadryn was on him, kneeling down and fisting his hands in the other mage’s tattered robes, pulling him up so they were close enough for whispers. “Why are you here?”

“Please\--I thought you would understand\--I just... I need your help.”

“You got away from the Templars a second time, seems to me you could help yourself. Jowan--stop sniveling.” Keeping a hold on him with one hand, Cadryn reached up with the other and jerked Jowan’s nose back into place, and the other mage howled in pain even as he healed it. “You deserved that. I’m not going to hit you again unless you say something exceptionally stupid.” Cadryn hauled him up to his feet, making sure Jowan was reasonably well balanced before letting go. The older mage immediately started prodding at his own nose to make sure it had settled back into place, wincing at the memory of pain.

“We caught him sneaking around,” the Dalish recruit offered, and Cadryn cursed himself for still being unable to remember the man’s name. “He’s not very good at it.”

“Never figured out how to keep from scuffing his heels,” Cadryn muttered, and finally took in the state of the others in the room, those who were armed with hands on weapons and everyone but Alistair and Anders looking ready to leap at a fight, which made some sense. A placating gesture did little to calm them, and, “It’s fine, he’s stupid, not dangerous,” helped little.

Aduran stepped in close enough to speak quietly. “I know he’s your friend, Cadryn, but he’s a wanted maleficar, guilty of enough with proof that I should kill him on the spot by Chantry law. I understand there are exceptions in your world, but this--” Whatever he meant to say next the Templar simply bit back, shaking his head.

“We’re going to talk, and if I don’t like what he has to say I’ll deal with him myself.” Under a glance back Jowan refused to meet his eyes, and he added, “You can stand right outside the door if you want, but I’m going to hear what he has to say before I turn him out.”

But it wasn’t just Aduran who followed them up to the study, Alistair and Anders tailing along as well, the blond mage explaining his presence at a curious look with a dismissive wave of his hands. “Don’t mind me, just along for the show when this inevitably goes wrong. Jowan is as notorious as I am with the Templars.” Cadryn didn’t miss the dark look to Anders’ eyes, the quirk to his smile just off....

He wasn’t sure with whom he would side with if it came to it, and by the time they arrived had decided that if he didn’t like what Jowan had to say he’d toss the blood mage out the window and be done with it. Nobody tried to follow them in, thankfully, and Cadryn moved another chair up close to the fire. Cassius had apparently decided to wait for him in here, and looked up curiously at Jowan. Jowan sat down without being told, and as the tea was still warm and the cup unused Cadryn offered him some.

“Why are you acting like this?” Jowan glanced from the offered tea up to Cadryn and back, as if it might be poisoned.

“I owed you the punch for lying to me.” Cadryn sat the tea aside and settled into his own chair. “If you had told me the truth, I would’ve suggested some other method of escape from the Tower, that you bide your time a little--the Grey Warden recruiter who was there would’ve been a better method of escape, and easy enough to get away from, and quick enough. I wouldn’t have betrayed to you anyone, including Lily. This....” He hesitated, uncertain for a moment, taking in how very pitiful and ragged Jowan looked, wondering where he’d been and how he’d been getting by. Voice growing quiet, Cadryn could only offer, “It doesn’t matter. Tell me why you’re here.”

Jowan swallowed nervously, but his voice was steady enough. “I’ve been doing some snooping around... and Lily hasn’t been released from Aeonar yet. They’re only supposed to test people there, and if they’re not a blood mage or possessed they get sent to a regular prison. I knew that if I went there myself I wouldn’t last an hour, but with you.... I just need you to help me get in. That’s all.”

“She said she never wanted to see you again.”

“And she won’t,” Jowan said, voice almost bright at the idea, “not after we get her out. I know lying to her... to both of you, I deserve whatever I get after that. But I can’t let her suffer for my mistake.”

“Would you have let me suffer?” It caught Jowan off guard, and Cadryn found he couldn’t maintain eye contact. He’d left these pains behind in Ostagar and Redcliffe, but here they were again, unbidden but voicable for the first time. “If the recruiter hadn’t been there, or even if you had gotten away they would’ve discovered my involvement eventually. I would’ve been punished as well, perhaps worse--they would’ve assumed I’d known you were a blood mage and helped you conceal it, perhaps even considered me one and that it must be why I’d outstripped the other apprentices by so far.” In the silence between them Jowan had space to answer, but just stared at the fire, expression mostly blank. “These things have consequences, Jowan, not just for yourself.”

“What do you want me to say?” There was a hollowness to Jowan’s voice that struck Cadryn deeply, a pang of sympathy--he knew that emotion as intimately as any lover. “I know what I’ve done, and what I almost did. I know I was weak, and I still am. I’ve spent the past year helping refugees and getting by on the gratitude of people for little touches of magic--I never ask them for anything. I thought I might redeem myself that way. But I’ve come to realize I’ll never be at peace unless I see everyone out of the mess I made--you pulled yourself out nicely, because you’re stronger, but Lily remains. I have to make it right.”

“You understand what you’re asking me to do, what kind of risk this would be?” Jowan nodded, and Cadryn stood, suddenly uncomfortable by the fire, moving to linger near a window where the air was more chill. Had to keep himself cold, especially now. “I have some conditions before I’ll agree to help you.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll agree to it. Anything to make this right.”

“You won’t after you hear it out,” Cadryn muttered, and he finally turned back to face Jowan, leaning against the window sill, arms crossed over his chest now. “You won’t go anywhere near Aeonar. We’ll do this my way. There will be no break in or dramatic rescue; I will use what influence I have, and I’m certain Ser Aduran will volunteer his own, to find out why she is still there. And we will proceed from there in an appropriately subtle fashion.” Jowan nodded his assent, because of course this seemed like wisdom. “And you’ll undergo the Joining tomorrow in repayment, to become a Grey Warden. It’s... not everyone survives, so if you disappear in the night I won’t send anyone after you. Just trust that I will find out why Lily is still in Aeonar and if it’s not a good reason I will do everything I can short of storming the gates to get her out.”

“Why would you want me to be a Warden, after everything I’ve done wrong? Won’t I just muck this up too?”

You don’t throw away years of friendship that readily. But Cadryn didn’t say anything of the sort, didn’t tell Jowan that Alistair, while great in his own right, made a poor substitute, that the other mages among the Wardens were far too intense, that this was a wretched, lonely existence and Cadryn needed someone around who was at least as much of a wreck as he was. Instead, it came out, “The Chantry can’t touch you here. You won’t have to run from them. They raise a hand against a Grey Warden, I’m within my rights to fight back.”

Of course, Cadryn had read Jowan perfectly; safe harbor was exactly what he needed, what had him so ragged, aside from Lily’s confinement. “I’ll be here. You’ve always gone out of your way to protect me, so if this is what you want, what you think is best, I’ll listen, for once.”

~*~

  
Jowan lived, and after the weather calmed down enough Cadryn made the trip to Denerim to place some inquiries that would hopefully reach the right ears. Aduran came along, as was his duty, and to make his own inquiries. The Templar had taken surprisingly little convincing after he’d heard the full story, saying something about regret being more powerful than any magic. And, much to his chagrin, Cadryn brought Melia along as well, after Alistair, Nathaniel and Anders had all begged him for some surcease from the girl’s attentions, that her flirtations were tolerable and sometimes even welcome but her curiosity and how closely she followed them about was maddening. So Cadryn stopped avoiding his niece, at least until they reached Denerim. He brought along one of the other new recruits, the quiet elf Alistair had saved from execution, so it would not seem like favoritism.

He made his more public inquiries himself, sending Melia and Tauno off to handle the surreptitious inquiries with a note of introduction. Tauno was familiar enough with the market that he led them directly to the weird little stall, and Melia stopped at the entrance for a moment, gawking, letter in her hands, even as the proprietor turned to greet them.

“Is that bear real? Why do you have it in a cage?”

“Ah....” The swarthy man looked from her to the fair-colored elf over her shoulder, who boldly met his eyes but offered no challenge, then from her to the bear, and back. She looked familiar enough that it threw him off guard, but he managed to recover and ask, “Did you need something?”

“Oh! Yes.” She shook the letter in one slim hand for emphasis. “My uncle wanted me to give this to a man named Ignacio, and to take his reply back.”

“Your uncle?”

“The Warden Commander.” She beamed proudly, and the resemblance made perfect sense now, the unusual color of her hair, the richness of her eyes, and the cast to her skin. “Where can I find Ignacio?”

“He won’t be back for a few hours,” Cesar offered warily. “But he will return before I close shop. If you could find some way to pass that time... otherwise, I can’t help you.”

“Thank you anyway. We’ll be back.” They stepped away just far enough for polite conversation, and Melia asked, “So you’re from Denerim, right? I didn’t get to look around much when I came here before--can you show me around?”

“We should probably go back to the estate to wait,” Tauno rumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously and clearly avoiding her question. She could see it easily in his stance, his light eyes rolling away from how she peered up at him--more than the nervousness she’d come to expect.

“We won’t get in trouble, come on! And if anyone gives you any trouble you’re a Warden now. Nobody can mess with you.” She tucked the letter away inside her vest, folding it carefully to fit. “Hey, you could see your family.”

He seemed to perk up at the suggestion, which Melia took as a private victory. “What’ll you do?”

“Go with you, of course. They let humans in the Alienage, right?”

“More like we can’t keep them out... you won’t be welcome.”

“Well,” she drew out the word and leaned back a little, smiling brightly as if at a very clever thought, “you can tell people I’m there to make sure no one gives you any trouble. Which I am. Anybody says anything to you, I’ll tell them where to put it and send them Uncle Ryn’s way. Do you think he would’ve asked you come here if he didn’t mean for you to go see them?”

Tauno shrugged and gave up, and led her off to the Alienage. They didn’t run into any trouble, and she politely waited outside despite her curiosity, enduring the glares of wary elves, sometimes glaring right back. It was a bad way, yeah, but it wasn’t much worse than how she’d been living before Teyrn Cousland came back to Highever.

When they went back to the stall in the late afternoon an older man was waiting for them. “Ignacio?” got a nod and a smile for the pretty young girl, and she handed over the letter. “From the Warden Commander.”

He read it quickly before folding the note up himself and tucking it away, and neither of the young Wardens ever saw the motion, quick as it was. “I will do this. But there will be no more favors between us after. I have...” he hesitated, uncomfortable, a sort of buzz in his strange accent, “heard some rumors. Unhappy ones your Commander will want to hear. And I have burned all the favors between us to get him this.” A small package appeared in his hand, battered and stained as if it had seen a rough trip. “Give it to him, and no one else. If he needs an explanation, tell him I do not have a good one--simply sufficient assurances to convince me that this is genuine.”

Melia had no cute or snide remarks under the man’s incredibly somber tone, and she took the package, stuffing it away somewhere safe. It was very small, roughly wrapped, some of the stains looked very suspect.... She delivered it, despite her suspicions that it could be something dangerous.

They returned with their news, and when she handed over the package Cadryn opened it with no thought to privacy or their presence; Ignacio would not send something sensitive, he would deliver it himself, so Cadryn believed. Melia caught a glimpse of a lustrous blond braid that looked like it had been ripped directly from a scalp before the choked sob and shout of, “Out!” drove both her and Tauno from the room.


	10. Chapter 10

Amidra insisted that she be allowed to prove her worth by getting them into the trapmaster’s cell so fervently that Zevran became suspicious.  She behaved as if she had something to hide behind her wicked smile, and over the next month as Zevran began his own reconnaissance of the cell he grew increasingly paranoid.  He began keeping false residences, and more than a few times thought himself being tailed, doubling back on pursuers to find nothing.

After two months he was moving on an irregular basis, keeping little stashes of gear in open attics and abandoned, undisturbed places.  With the rainy winter of the Antivan coast reaching a dramatic height, days in a row of downpour as great storms swept in from the shores of Par Vollen and down across Rivain, even the Crows kept indoors and tended to their own business, contracts scarce.  The little Crow apprentices still looked up to Amidra, temporarily Master of the pens as no one could produce enough evidence to accuse her of anything against Sandro. The most intelligent made excellent spies once Zevran was sure they understood what was at stake.  Those children who were dull would remain Crows and be weeded out eventually, or become facilitators instead of assassins.  The brightest, the ones who truly comprehended what becoming a Crow meant, were offered the greatest reward of all for their service: choice, to remain with the Crows and receive ideal placement or to fly free with no pursuit or punishment.  These children, often the older ones, were diligent in their service, undaunted by the heavy rains, and reported on everything that seemed like Crow business.

Of all of them, Zevran found one he turned to most often, one who insinuated himself into a useful place, a human boy thin and ragged, too tall for his age with dark hair like a tangle of weeds, just barely too old to still be in the pens, who insisted his name was simply Nat.  He was tight-lipped and sullen, but moved like the softest of shadows, and the other children respected him so much that they gave their laboriously gathered, preciously hoarded secrets to him with little fuss.  Instead of searching out many small groups of children, Zevran only sought Nat, and eventually even began relaying his orders through the boy.  By the worn state of his being and the fire that remained in Nat’s dark eyes, the Crows had tried to break him and failed desperately, and he knew exactly the worth of freedom from them.  This boy Zevran trusted as much as he trusted anyone here in his homeland.

So when Nat brought him news that Amidra was meeting with a member of Master Tullia’s cell, Zevran listened carefully before seeking her out.  She reported a frustrating lack of progress, not the friendly exchanges between herself and a fair-complected elven man that in Nat’s estimation implied some physical relationship.  They discussed alternative methods of infiltration, and she shared with him a vague floor plan she'd managed to wheedle out of various cell members.

Zevran grew more paranoid, and knew he could no longer rely on Amidra as an ally, writing her off as a poor choice but necessary at the time, and what information she had gathered proved useful.  The children, as well, he grew to rely on as little as possible, save through Nat.  The boy understood, after all, what was at stake.  

At two and a half months he had lost enough momentum in his fight against the Crows that he had to act soon if he wanted to use his kills as power to bargain instead of killing all of them, something he knew he likely wouldn’t survive.  Tullia was still his best target, one he had at least some useful reconnaissance on.  His chosen entrance to her compound was an emergency exit the children had found, a little tunnel that led to the sewers and eventually down to the canal, the entrance to which was underwater.  

They said they'd made it up into the lowest level of the compound before finding anything that even remotely resembled a defense, Tullia's house likely counting on the entrance's submersion to keep any interlopers out. It wasn't especially foolish, as no one went wandering around in Antiva's sewers or swimming in her canals for all the obvious reasons, and some less than obvious—the only people who made use of them were people who would kill a trespasser with no hesitation, Crows and smugglers and apostates, and nearer the shore they partially flooded during high tide. This entrance was something Tullia's cell could afford to be careless about, because they risked very, very little leaving it unguarded, and in his observations Zevran had discovered that despite her cell's paranoia the Master herself was supremely smug.

Zevran left his fouled, dripping clothing at the iron door separating the sewers from Tullia's basement, pulling fresh out of an oilcloth bag, knowing the smell of the sewers would've given him away as surely as any hard misstep. He had only a vague idea of the building's layout, one of those few things Amidra had managed to provide, and an idea of the Master's movements within the compound. The rest he trusted to luck and observations made along the way, because he could afford no more waiting.

The basement was indeed as abandoned as the children had said, an inch of water standing on the smooth hewn floor, a ladder up slick with algae and slime, leading to a trap door which, the children had said, was locked and they didn't try to go beyond. They knew their uses, after all. From comparing Amidra's rough floor plan to what the children had described and what he now saw with his own eyes, the trap door here would open into a pantry.

At the top of the ladder Zevran hooked his legs around the rungs such that both hands were free to work the lock. In the same breath he quietly thanked Leliana for her insistence he learn this better and stifled a little sound of discomfort. In his motions the chain around his neck shifted, icy from his swim in the canals and his trek in the damp sewers. In that cold metal was the chill of his far away lover's hands after his cold magic, it was the ice in his expression when one of their companions was doing something foolish and could not be made to see reason, that look that meant they must learn folly for themselves and he would be there to patch their wounds, comfortable that the experience was chastisement enough. So his next breath was a quiet apology, because Cadryn wasn't here to pick up the pieces if this went poorly. Which Zevran was almost certain it would, but he wouldn't run away now, cower back in Ferelden while the Crows made ruin of their lives, and he would not kill his way up from the very bottom—someone would get lucky. No, he was just as convinced as that night in Rialto, this was the right course of action, no matter how supremely foolish it seemed.

The little trap on the door that would spew acid in his face was easily disabled, and the lock only a little more difficult because it hadn't been used in so long. The door opened up into the room he expected, and a light touch found his way around the dark room, this next door opening into a hall, stone floors and plastered walls. Little pre-morning kitchen sounds drifted down from one end, and from the other silence and darkness. He slipped out and around the corner quickly, hearing no activity in the adjoining hall, and though it was dimly lit, only every other of the hanging lamps lit at this hour before waking, Zevran found plenty of shadow, passing like a whisper over the stone floor for where Amidra had described a set of stairs. His few close calls were easily dealt with, ducking into conveniently open doors or side halls. No more than a few breaths ever passed in real hiding, and it seemed terribly convenient, but the halls held enough activity that Zevran didn't grow suspicious. He was more concerned with how strangely warm the building seemed, despite the cool winter rains and hard winds battering the city.

The stairs Amidra had mentioned were down a side hall, not the grand staircase he'd glimpsed in the main hall but a smaller one, left rickety and poorly repaired on purpose because it was less convenient to keep an eye on, and no one sneaking about would use a staircase that looked so noisy and uncertain to hold their weight. Zevran knew better, that the thing most certainly would hold up, as it was the stair Master Tullia herself most often used, according to Amidra and her undisclosed sources, and Zevran was deft enough that the thing didn't so much as squeak, very careful in how he shifted his weight going up.

The stairs opened into a hall, and Tullia's offices were one of the nearby doors, but which specifically he couldn't be sure. Amidra had assured him there were no sleeping quarters on this floor, nor any room you would expect bored Crows to be using in the pre-dawn hours, so he could check them without fear of anything but traps, and that he very much doubted he'd find—these rooms saw regular use, after all, and even among masters of the craft it made no sense to place traps where your allies were more likely to trigger them than an intruder. It was warmer up here, the air stale, his skin growing sticky in a most unpleasant fashion.

One of the doors opened abruptly, and at the head of the rickety stairs Zevran had nowhere to hide, but he was on the person in a single breath's time, throwing them back into the room with a blade at their throat.

Zevran startled, blood already on his hands, finding Taliesen pinned beneath him, lips blue and ice in his hair. Drawing back, pushing himself up, Zevran almost forgot the dagger, pulling it instead from Taliesen's chest rather than away from his throat. It was Taliesen in his moment of death, and that the killing blow made while Taliesen was shaking off Cadryn's magic. Taliesen struggled up, unaffected by the blow but ice crackling in his armor, and stood before him bleeding out from that chest wound and a dozen others, half-frozen. “Some hello you have there. I'd expect you to be happier to see me.”

“You're dead.” The moment the words escaped him Zevran felt supremely foolish, but it was all he could manage, grasping frantically for reasons behind this sudden vision. At a hand on his shoulder Zevran turned, dagger up in a defensive grip but not lunging out this time—Rinna stood there, glorious dark hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders, plainclothes a mess, slender neck split open with a horizontal line of red and spilling blood down over her breast.

“We had to welcome you home, Zevran.” Blood flowed from the wound with every word, and her strong voice wheezed with the unintended intake of air through the wound. She reached out for him, carefully maneuvering around the dagger to grasp his wrist. Her hands were still sure and strong, the sort of hands a man would want at his side, defending him, and her touch was cool and dry in the stifling heat, still growing oppressive around him. “You're home with us.”

Amidra slunk in over Rinna's shoulder, laying her hands on the elf's shoulders, burying her face in the girl's hair for a moment. “You were wise to come here, before you could kill another lover.” Her lips were red, red as Rinna's blood, her aroma carrying into the room a warm breeze of rose and sex and blood, and suddenly the paint on her lips was no longer makeup but blood spilling across their perfect bow. “You save him from the Crows, you save him from yourself. But, you remember the rumors before you left... you can't save him from the nobles, from the Chantry. He was too innocent in all the wrong ways, for you to leave behind.”

“But don't worry.” Another hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch, but the hand too large to be Taliesen—to his side now Zevran found Cadryn, face neutral as his voice had been, hair shorn close and a red mark marring the center of his forehead, all light gone from those soulful green eyes. “We're at peace.”

“No,” a whisper. He wasn't sure what he felt just yet, only that he needed to run from it, too much truth in these specters. “No!” Zevran struck out, blade slicing through Rinna and Amidra in front of him with no resistance, no effect. And he understood, suddenly, this wasn't something he could run from. He'd been here before, but strapped to a rack and convinced he was being tested as an apprentice again. All he could do was wait, helpless and hopeless, so Zevran sank to the plush carpet, curled up against one wall, dagger still held defensively in front of himself.

Amidra disappeared, but the others remained, his lovers betrayed watching him. The two Crows began conversing amicably, as he'd remembered them in life, as if they were not standing there with bleeding wounds and one covered in ice that didn't react to this terrifying heat. The mage, his dear Warden, stood aside from them, silent, expression unwavering, and more frightening in this tranquility than either of the others in their gory moments of death. No, Cadryn was just staring at him, utterly impassive.

“Help me,” was a pathetic whisper, useless. Zevran wasn't sure when this had happened or how he'd gotten here, but it had taken the mage to bring him out last time.

A gentle, almost patronizing smile broke the neutrality, but it was far from reassuring, clearly meant to calm and placate. “I'm not real. You've already figured this out. As such, I can do nothing.”

“The man you are meant to be would kill himself before being reduced to such a state,” Zevran argued. “And I would have helped him, given no other options. So what you are is impossible.”

“Perhaps. However, I am legitimate enough for your fears.”

“He would not keep me trapped here.” Zevran searched for any hint in the mage's face that this was working, that in having this ridiculous argument Zevran was tricking himself, changing his own dreamscape, still found no light in those eyes. “He would free me.”

“And he would explain to you why this would not work.” Still that patronizing smile, and Zevran was suddenly struck with an urge to punch this specter, to strike out in some fashion and vent his fear and despair. “You are no mage. Your will here has little effect.”

“I am trapped by some demon, then? Fitting, for a master of traps to employ such a thing.”

“No.” Rinna suddenly spoke, her voice still wheezing through her torn throat. “We are you. We are your guilt. Each of us in our turn, betrayed or abandoned in your fear.”

“Ever the coward, Zevran.” Taliesen moved up to crouch in front of him, pushed Zevran's dagger away when it was brandished at him. “You run from anything you can't solve with your **** or your blade. If only you'd been brave enough to take matters into your own hands, some of us would've still been alive.”

“Cadryn would still have killed you,” Zevran choked out, batting at Taliesen's face when the man got too close, but his fingers passed through the man's form like smoke. “And he would have died in Denerim.” Cadryn, standing behind Taliesen, no longer appeared as one recently made Tranquil, but broken and bloodied as he'd been on the battlements of Fort Drakon after slaying the Archdemon. “I saved you, just as you had saved me. Do it again.”

“You have no power here,” he repeated, voice broken and worn as his body, “and I am just a figment of this vision.”

“I have no power here,” Zevran's voice grew steadier, more sure, and he swallowed down the knot of fear in his throat, “but a mage would. I have done you no betrayal; Alistair would not have failed in delivering his letter, and I will return to you. I know that you would believe this. So free me from this place, specter. Use the power I know he has.”

The others disappeared, leaving him with Cadryn standing before him as on the night they'd exchanged their vows and the chains they wore, gentle smile genuine now, just a slight drawing up of the corners of his mouth, nervous, eyes full of admiration. Despair fled for a sudden surge of heavy emotion, a swelling sensation within his chest, things Zevran had no words for but they were stronger than ever at this moment. No, this Cadryn wasn't real, but it was the part of his lover Zevran carried with him, the indelible mark left on his soul by their time together. The specter offered him a hand up, which Zevran took, casting aside his dagger.

“You do have power,” the specter told him, and the chain around his neck was suddenly so cold it burned against the oppressive heat. “Let no one convince you otherwise, especially after this. Just... don't leave me waiting. Most importantly, live.”

:::

  
Zevran woke with a jerk, the world spinning, his lungs on fire as if being burned from the inside with acid. He was being held down bodily, at shoulders and waist, as someone strapped him down to a table, and he struggled weakly but found there wasn't enough power in his muscles to so much as buck against them with any respectable strength. He'd been stripped, too, and everything was gone, including the chain. Once he was properly restrained the people holding him down withdrew, revealing a withered little elven woman behind them, her fingers gnarled around a vial which she shook at him, fine blue crystals inside sliding around.

“There is one poison no Crow is immune to, fledgling. And this is a lesson you would do well to remember, should you somehow survive your stay with us.” The vial disappeared into a pocket on her vest. “I will ask politely, once: who has been helping you?”

Zevran had enough of his wits about him to manage, “I must say, I am surprised that a woman of your years would be in such fine shape. I am curious as to what might lay beneath that distressingly utilitarian and drab garb.”

She gestured with one gnarled claw of a hand, somewhere a lever was pulled and gears shifted, and the tight bonds around his wrists and ankles began moving apart. Pacing around the rack as it moved, she watched owlishly, her eyes made wider by how tight her skin had drawn over the fine bones of her face. “I have been made to understand you passed these tests exceptionally well, fledgling, and I have been assured that I will have nothing out of you unless I resort to a very particular method. We do this first to give you a chance. You are strong, and you have proven your value to the guild. We would welcome you back with open arms if you reveal to us who has been helping you since your return to Antiva.” She stopped very close, leaning in until her breath was hot and stale on his face, the glimmer in her gray eyes that of a knife in the dark. “But I will not hesitate to lock you in the darkest, loneliest little hole I can find and wring those secrets out of your moldy bones. You would be no loss to us. Do we understand one another, fledgling?”

He strained against his bonds enough to plant a kiss against her nose, and laughed riotously when she looked up to whoever manned the lever and barked out, “Faster!” This was a game he knew how to play, the rules already written into his flesh and his soul, and one she could not win. He would come up with some nonsense, feed them a pleasant lie when they had done enough and be on his way.


	11. Chapter 11

By the third day Zevran’s head was finally clear, the lyrium no longer burning through his veins, no longer seeing things out the sides of his vision, and he decided he had made a grave miscalculation.  Master Tullia had not been bluffing; he had given them no secrets before passing out in exhaustion and pain, expecting them to make a good effort of their torture.  He could not tell a believable lie unless they put forth their expected amount of effort, after all.

When he woke he was curled up awkwardly, wedged into a corner against a slick stone wall, knees against his chin because the far wall was so very, very close.  He was still disoriented enough from the lyrium, in those first moments, that he’d panicked, groping for the edges of this tiny, dark prison, banging his head against a metal grate that prevented a man locked down here from standing up, breath catching in his chest until he became lightheaded and feared he might pass out.  

Since then he had reigned his fear in somewhat, and meticulously examined every crack and angle in the prison, blind as he was in such utter darkness.  A series of very tiny holes in the floor, not even big enough for a finger,  served as a drain, and so far as Zevran could tell by the delay between liquid falling and the sound of it striking went down quite far before opening up.  From the liquid standing in one corner some of those holes were blocked with the effluent of past occupants.  The grate above was sunk deeply into the walls, and the bars were too close together to allow fingers through.  He bloodied his fingers working at the pins and trying to find anything that  resembled a latch, but could only conclude that the mechanism  lay entirely on the outside of the grate.

He went through three cycles of sleeping and waking, and for his own sanity defined these as days and did not question it, before the lyrium was truly out of his system and he was master of his own mind again.  And with that gone it began to sink in just how utterly fucked he was.  No miracles would be delivering him from this hole, and Tullia had made it clear the Crows had no need of him.  This would be a lonely, maddening death, probably of thirst unless he wanted to try drinking his own piss.  He tried not to dwell on promises that would be broken, saving those thoughts for when he could not help but face them.

An indistinct, heavy sound echoing through the chamber interrupted his next sleep period, and Zevran looked up just as the door at the far top of the chamber swung open, brilliant blinding light streaming down between the bars of the nearer grate.  Flinching away reflexively turned out to be for the better, as a torrent of icy water came crashing down over him, washing away much of the accumulated filth.  When the water had passed but the light had not Zevran turned his head upward again, squinting, saw shadows closer, hands working on the grate.  It swung open on well-maintained hinges, then hands were on his shoulders, hauling him up and out of the pit onto a ledge surrounding it, pinning his arms behind him in a fluid motion.  After so many days cramped down there the sudden motion, and especially the pinning of his arms in a hold that would have been painful no matter what, had his muscles screaming.  No matter how much he wanted to buck them off and flee, he was weak, the light was still too much.  Better to wait for a moment where he felt more limber, gather his strength and his will.

“You’re going up the ladder first, and if you do anything foolish you will be knocked off the ladder and left to rot with whatever injuries you sustain.”  The voice in his ear was surprisingly soft, a man’s light tenor.  The grip on his arms shifted, and he was shoved forward, stumbling half-blind into a series of rungs bolted into the wall.  He was disoriented enough by all the sudden motion and light and pain that by the time he reached the top of the ladder Zevran felt like he might be sick if there was anything left in him.  At the top strong hands steadied him, but there was no sympathy in their touch.

Light still stung his eyes, but he could make out a vague sense of the people around him now, able to tell who was two humans who looked similar enough to blend together and an exceptionally slender elven woman, and even what seemed in his blurry vision to be a dwarven man with a neatly clipped blond beard.  Someone draped a cloak around his shoulders, began ushering him away from the oubliette and out into the searing afternoon light, pulling a hood up over his head and moving quickly.  They ducked into cool shade quickly enough, and it seemed a blessing to his abused eyes.

The room Zevran found himself in was the same as the other first floor rooms of the villa, stone floors and plaster walls, but here the furnishings were worn, once decadently plush and now ratty, someone’s cast offs.  The person behind him, the one who had pulled him out of the oubliette and kept a hand on his back since throwing the cloak over him pushed him toward a battered red divan.  Zevran managed to twist as he collapsed on it, still unsteady, and he landed graceless but in the intended configuration, sitting upright and facing the man who had been directing him..  The dwarf and the slender elven woman followed him in and closed the door, the dwarf staying near it and the elven woman drifting wearily to a high backed chair.  Where the dwarf was red-skinned as if permanently burned under the Antivan sun and everything about his appearance meticulous otherwise, the elven woman was dark as if she had some Rivaini blood, her movements fluid and ethereal but something about her worn.  The man who had been guiding him was very broadly built for an elf, but not heavily muscled, sleek as one expected of a Crow.  This must be the fair-complected man Nat had described to him, because the man’s hair was the color of white gold, his eyes watery blue, skin pale and face sharp, every edge to it like a knife.

“We will make a few things clear first, Master Zevran.”  He would’ve laughed if he’d had the energy, because it was said in the same fashion one would speak of a Crow Master.  “We are in charge, and you will defer to us for now.  If any of the three of us tells you do something, you will do it, and save your questions for after.  It is for your own good.”  A door somewhere behind Zevran opened, and he didn’t dare look until a weight settled on the divan next to him and a soft hand touched his shoulder.  

Amidra was sitting next to him, her wicked smile bright as the light in her eyes, offering him a cup of broth which he took and began to sip greedily, heedless of the temperature.  “I told you I would get you an in.”  All the mischief in her smile bled into her voice, the notes of it light and intoxicating, beautiful song after his brief time in the oubliette.  “The method was unpleasant, and I apologize.  We had to get you into Master Tullia’s possession before the people we needed could be convinced to help.”  Across the room, the dark skinned elven woman sighed dramatically, sinking further into her chair, and dismissed them with a little flick of her dark eyes.

With some liquid in him Zevran was able to manage, voice thready and breaking, “I assume you mean to dictate some plan to me?”

“Master Tullia is supremely paranoid, Master Zevran.  Her lyrium traps would have caught you no matter what, sneaking in, and any of us would have been killed had we tried to get you in.  None of us are indispensable, and Tullia employs a blood mage who could easily unmake any one of us.  Anyone she suspects of treachery is subjected to their tests.”  The pale man paused, waiting for the obvious question, so Zevran obliged.

“Why did she not turn me over to her blood mage, then?”

“She did,” wispy and pained, drifting up from the elven woman, who refused to make eye contact.  “The blood mage was the one who needed convincing.  No plan to assassinate Tullia will succeed without the mage’s approval.”

Zevran spared her another glance, and now that he had his wits about him the woman was far too slender to pass for any sort of assassin, delicate as glass, and while she was wearing plainclothes the sleeves of her blouse were too long for the temperature and too frivolous for her company, layers cut to reveal other layers of ever finer fabrics, the three other Crows wearing leathers and armed. She carried only a small knife in her belt. “I take it I passed your test, then?”

He practically felt Amidra's smug smirk as the other Crows in the room took respective looks of shock. The elven woman sighed, still refusing to meet his eyes, and soft as smoke in her perpetually strained voice breathed, “Something to that effect.”

“Much as I would love to stand here and admire your deductive skills all day, Master Zevran, we only have a couple of hours to hammer out the details of our plan.” The pale elf made an angry gesture at Amidra when Zevran didn't immediately look back too him.

For his part, Zevran was more concerned with unraveling this mage's game, wondering what she was playing at or what she had seen that convinced her he was worth her time. “When did you go rifling through my thoughts, my dear?”

“Blood magic is not what the Chantry makes it out to be, not entirely. I cannot do half the things they tell you, half the things Tullia claims I can, and those I can do must be done with ceremony. Rest assured, Master Zevran, there is no permanent damage done. I have learned a delicate touch in my time here. Please,” she gestured weakly to the pale elf with one hand, “listen to what Sil has to say. I can put your mind at ease later.”

That satisfied him for the moment, so Zevran paid the pale elf, this “Sil”, the attention he so clearly desired. “Master Tullia intends to leave you down there to rot, but we need you whole as you can be to attack her. Our intention is to orchestrate a miracle. If you survive the oubliette long enough, she will ask to have you brought before her. Those of us who are tired of her will aid you as we can, but you must be the one to fight her. She is not particularly strong because of her age, but her allies are powerful, and were any one of us to strike out against her and fail she would purge the lot of us.”

“But if I make the first blow and fail, then you are simply incompetent, not traitorous, yes?” Cowards, the lot of them—but Zevran couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same thing a few years ago. “And the punishment for incompetence is very different than the one for treachery.”

“Just so,” Sil said, inclining his head slightly. “So you must be the one to actually strike out at her. We have an idea of how to orchestrate this particular moment, but desire your input as your hands must wield the blade. Until then, we have managed to influence the guard schedule on the outbuilding that houses the oubliette. For two hours each day our men will be on guard duty inside the building, and for those two hours you will be free. We can do no more without seeming suspicious.”

“What keeps me from telling Master Tullia of your plans and getting close to her otherwise? Or using that to get back into the Crow's good graces?”

“She will not believe you,” the blood mage said. “Or she would kill you anyway and still purge the cell. Her moods are strange in her old age.”

Going senile, Zevran heard under her voice, and understood why these Crows would fear her and want her gone. “When she is slain, then what? What prevents you from turning me over to the Crows to regain their good graces after?”

“They are not so foolish, and neither are we. We would be saddled with another like Tullia or worse, and any traitors would be purged—many still loyal enough for the Crows would be killed in the process.”

“Only an idiot spends years perfecting a machine to rip it apart on a whim.” The dwarf finally spoke up from where he stood at the door, and Zevran had to admire the striking richness of his voice, like clear and deeply toned bells. “The Masters are out of touch, bitter and greedy. The ones who're good don't make it to the top, just the ones who are treacherous and clever and know who to please, the politicians among us. The guild must change, or we'll all fall apart sooner or later. You're our bet.”

“None of us are politicians, Master Zevran. We cannot play their game. We are the artists, and we need someone to lead us if we are ever to claw our way out of this pit they keep us in.” Zevran had only seen one other Crow show such unabashed emotion as Sil, and it had ended very poorly for her. The man was so full of fire and unashamed of it that Zevran took him for sincere, because now that he had been outside he knew no Crow could fake it quite this well. “If you kill Tullia for us, we will kill those of our brothers and sisters that we know will cause you trouble, and we will throw in with you. No one man can kill the Crows, but one man with a cell like ours? We are not trapmakers, we are the best, stolen from our old masters by Tullia's snatching hands.”

“You are afraid of her, but you are not afraid of death in my service? Death for your cause? I seek only to prove to the Crows that I am not worth their time, and if I must cut off the head to achieve that so be it.”

“We fear failure,” the blood mage offered. “Each of us needs Tullia; of all the Crows we have met, only you can replace her. You are already infamous within the ranks. With a cell behind your skill and your charisma, the Crows must take all of us seriously.”

There was no question, of course. He wanted no such attachments but they would serve him well. Each of the people in this room gave him reason to believe their sincerity by some little tic they themselves failed to notice or purposefully let slip. “You said you had some ideas on how to go about the killing itself? We should get started, if our time is as short as you say it is.”

~*~

  
Two hours out of the oubliette per day to eat and plan was not nearly enough. The two humans who guarded the building during this time, a pair of brothers who strongly resembled one another, Valentin and Vinicio, were terse conversationalists, but relatively gentle in helping him out of the pit, and quick about it. He began regaining his flagging strength with regular food, and Sil often visited to go through the choreography for the moment of Tullia's death. Much rested on that one moment, and he had a keen mind, laying every detail out in perfect clarity, but no art to his speech, blunt as an ogre's fist.

A week passed before the dwarf and the blood mage came to him instead of Sil, two who would not reveal their names for fear of being tattled on, and the dwarf said, “Somebody asked for proof you're here. Tullia means to send them a braid. I have to....”

“I understand, my friend.” Zevran unbound his hair and sat down, offering the end of one braid to him. “Just be quick about it.”

The dwarf was strong, thankfully, and it was quick. A whisper of magic from the elven woman stymied any discomfort, and she sat with him as he ate while the dwarf ran off with his proof.

“While you were still under the influence of the lyrium.”

“Hm?” Zevran hardly looked up from his meal, expecting her to continue with little prompting if she really meant to tell him anything.

“You asked, before, when I saw into your mind. While you were still in the throes of your hallucinations. I saw some of what you saw, and other things.... No one among the Crows is allowed to feel. You have recovered without losing any of your skill, and that gives me hope. I did not seek Tullia's protection to be reduced to something so like a Tranquil.” It clearly hurt her throat to speak so much from the amount of pausing and swallowing she did, and the pinched quality to her voice. “When you return to him, you tell your lover he saved you in more ways than one. I would have killed you, had I not seen him through your eyes. You understand how complicated the choices we make can be.”

“You need say nothing else, my dear.” He flashed her a sly little smile over his bowl, and the other elf looked away. “I believe we understand one another.”

“Better than either of us would like, I think.” She stood, thin limbs unfolding somewhere between art and alien motion, and left him to finish his meal in peace.

~*~

  
After two weeks it happened, in the late afternoon of the first truly dry day of the new season. Of the men who dragged him to Tullia's office three were unfamiliar, but as planned Sil was one of the men carrying him unrestrained. Zevran had lost some weight regardless of the other Crows' efforts, and some muscle mass, but there was still plenty of strength left in him to deal a killing blow to an old woman. They had run through this so many times that he didn’t think when he was dropped to the fine carpet in front of Tullia's desk, Sil and the stranger still holding him, and Tullia stood from behind he desk. He launched up, shrugging the two men off with some effort, and punched Sil in the face while the other man was reeling, drawing the other elf's sword as he fell and launching himself three steps and over the desk at Tullia, who in her age lacked the grace to react properly. A dagger was in her hand to guard, but not up before the blade sank into her gut.

Those among the group who were not loyal fell under the blood mage's power, all choking on their own blood at the speed of thought. She swayed, and gripped the desk tightly where she had been standing next to Tullia, looking down at Zevran next to her as he pulled the blade viciously back out.

Sil spent a moment popping his jaw back into place, and took a sword from one of the dying Crows before turning to the dwarf at the back of the group. “Give the signal.”

By nightfall Zevran was Master of House Castilla, overseeing the disposal of a handful of dead Crows and rounding up stragglers, and most importantly properly dressed and fed for the first time in nearly two weeks, the fine golden chain that signified all his important promises back in his possession.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any readers spot any censor marks, please tell me; its an artifact of the archive I'm copying them from and should be corrected.

Alistair was not, by any stretch of the imagination, particularly observant, or attentive, or any of those other things that would clue him in on what a person wanted or needed.  He still knew what was wrong the moment he saw Cadryn, by the grim set of his jaw and the way he carried himself, suddenly the proud and haughty mage he had projected when he needed to intimidate people.  It was different, and wrong, for him to just be like that, and Alistair could only think of one thing to cause it.

He managed to corner Cadryn on his way to his office, stopped him with a soft word.  Cadryn didn’t turn around to face him, just stopped, shoulders slouching.  The way he carried himself made it less obvious, but he wasn’t much different from when Alistair had arrived, still worn and different.  He’d always been quiet, private, but recently it was like all the life had drained out him.  It worried Alistair, but he didn’t ask after it because he knew it wasn’t just Zevran’s absence but the politics and the decisions made while they’d been apart, the things that had happened that Cadryn refused to talk about.  And there wasn’t anything he could do about it, but helplessly watch his friend degrade into something more like a sullen automaton.

“Not out here,” Cadryn finally said, voice soft but throaty with barely restrained emotion.  “I don’t want to talk about it out here.”

Once inside the office Cadryn made as if to walk around the desk and sit down behind it, but stopped abruptly at one of the forward corners, as though he had suddenly remembered Alistair was a friend and not someone to deal with as Commander or Arl.  Because that was what the desk meant, Alistair had come to realize.  It was distance.

It became clear Cadryn wasn’t going to start, because he just stood there, back to Alistair, hesitant.  “You... got word?  About Zevran?”  Turning, Cadryn pulled something from the folds of his robes, something kept close to his heart, and handed it over.  Once he realized what was being offered him, Alistair didn’t take it, just made an involuntary, surprised noise somewhere in his nose.  “How do you know its real?”

“Ignacio told me he used a lot of favors to get this.  He has an associate who keeps an ear out for news he’d be interested in, aside from his official sources, and they sent this.  The news that came with it was so muddled he isn’t sure what’s going on back in Antiva, but that Zevran was captured and possibly killed at some point--he hasn’t heard any more news since this, he’d just gotten it  when I went to Denerim.”  Cadryn tucked the braid safely away, fingers unconsciously sliding over the plait of it as if savoring the texture.  “He told me it sounds like war, and if it is then he’s chosen his side.”

“Why would they keep fighting, if Zevran was... well.”  He wasn’t going to say it, because at the insinuation Cadryn’s teeth ground audibly, and all the fire and sadness, the slouch he stood in, drained out of him for something cold and hard, the look he set on Alistair utterly foreign.

“I don’t know, but Ignacio has earned his safety, and that of his contact.  I’m not staying here, regardless.  If he’s been captured, then I’ll see him free and safe and we’ll have a talk about acceptable risk.  If he’s dead, nothing will save them.”  It was a ridiculous thing to say, and if this were anyone but Cadryn and he weren’t so full of ice and suddenly dispassionate, perfectly detached from what he was saying, Alistair would have laughed.  As it stood, the mage terrified him.

Alistair knew better than to question his friend’s wisdom; he’d been here before, not with a lover but with someone he certainly loved.  “How soon?”

“Do you remember the pirate we met in Denerim?  The acquaintance of Zevran’s?”  Alistair nodded, remembering how incredibly awkward the meeting had been, Isabella shamelessly flirting with everyone indiscriminately, and how mortifying it had been to watch Zevran and Cadryn follow her up to a room later.  He blushed just thinking about it, almost as badly as he had then, but he had no mug of ale to hide behind here.  “She left me a way to get in touch with her, and I’ve sent word to meet in Amaranthine as soon as possible.  The docks are serviceable enough by what Nathaniel has told me.  Ignacio’s contact will be waiting for me in Antiva City.”

“But when do we leave?”

Cadryn hesitated for a long moment, and a smile began to color his face, just a small one, but genuine, and a general softening of his features.  “We don’t.”

“You can’t go alone, all the way to Antiva, to fight the Crows.  Someone will get lucky.”  Alistair hesitated himself, not really sure of what he wanted to say, how to word it, but he finally managed to sputter out, “And he’s my friend, too, believe it or not.”

“Who would stay here to run the Wardens?  Nathaniel is too busy playing Seneschal.  Oghren?  The others aren’t much more reasonable or responsible than him, save Sigrun, and she’s much too mild, too friendly.  People respect you now, hard as that is to understand.  And trust me, I do understand.  I went through this during the Blight.  But I need you, now, like you needed me then.”

Under such praise and confidence Alistair felt a little awkward, a little proud, and he wasn’t sure what to say but, “You still can’t go alone.”  

“I won’t.”  Cadryn reached out, clasped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.  Though the smile was tired it was genuine, and underneath everything else that frightened him and made him despair Alistair realized there was something left of the man he called ‘brother’, something to salvage.  “But you can’t come with me.  I need you to be here for me.”

Alistair reached up, clasped a hand over Cadryn’s.  “I’ll keep everything together until you get back.”

“Now I just need you to help me convince the others.”

~*~

  
At first it was just the four of them, Cadryn, Nathaniel, Alistair and Aduran, sitting down and devising a way to cover for Cadryn’s absence.  Both Seneschal and Templar questioned the wisdom of this mad quest, but before even Cadryn could try to reason it out Alistair spoke up.  “Doing the right thing takes a lot away from you.  And some things you have to take back.”  Nobody questioned the statement, each understanding what Alistair was saying about their Warden Commander and Arl in a different way.

Nathaniel would run the Arling in his absence, naturally, and should the need arise he would take up Fergus Cousland’s offer of an alliance; Cadryn agreed to pen a letter to the Teyrn before leaving.  Alistair would temporarily become Warden Commander, since he had been doing the job more or less on his own for a few months now.  Aduran’s task would be the riskiest, as they all agreed that Cadryn’s trip needed to remain a secret from his political enemies, and toward that end a secret from the Chantry.

So they let it be known that the Warden Commander had been summoned to Weisshaupt to discuss the events of the Blight, and as his Chantry-appointed observer Aduran would be traveling with him.  Cadryn penned a series of letters to send back to various people he knew to make the trip seem more legitimate, and Aduran would be making the trip towards Weisshaupt, at least part of the way, and sending in his required reports.  Aduran seemed upset at the idea of falsifying his reports, but when questioned simply said, “I’ve already broken my vows a hundred times over since coming here, all justified.  I can’t get much more damned in the eyes of the Chantry, should they find out.”

Jowan’s situation with Lily was the most problematic issue left, and Cadryn wasn’t sure what to do but explain why he had to leave.  So he forced a warmer manner, sat Jowan down in the study with a cup of tea and explained everything to him.  Naturally, Jowan asked, “What about Lily?”

“Nathaniel and Anders will be working on it.  Nathaniel is good, I trust him.  And Anders is amused by the whole ordeal, so I doubt he’ll lose interest, and he’ll be useful when they find out why she’s still there.”  In spite of his efforts to present everything in a warmer fashion, Cadryn found his tone still came out neutral, cold and not particularly reassuring.  “My only concern is I’m not so sure he won’t decide to break her out once they find out why, and he could persuade quite a few of the Wardens to help him.”

When Jowan failed to respond for a good, long while, just staring down at his untouched tea, Cadryn began to worry, but let him sit undisturbed.  This might seem too much like breaking his promise, but his worry for Zevran overrode any guilt, and much as Jowan was his friend his sympathy was stretched thin.

“I’ve done enough damage,” Jowan finally muttered.  “I don’t want to make her life any worse, and I said I would trust your judgment.”  When Jowan finally looked up Cadryn fancied he saw a glimmer of tears in the other man’s eyes.  “You asked if I would’ve left you to rot.  No.  I would have found a way--or tried to.  To get you out, if they punished you for my mistakes.  I would probably have failed, but I would have done for you what we’re trying to do for Lily.”

“Jowan--”  Cadryn immediately bit off what he’d meant to say, afraid it would’ve come off patronizing.  “I was angry when I said those things.  Don’t give them too much weight.”

“But you were right.  And I want to make this right.  You’ve done more for me than I deserve.  I know what kind of friend I’ve been.  How much trouble you got into protecting me in the Tower.  And I just got jealous of you instead of really thinking about it.”  Jowan glanced away, and Cadryn thought back on those times with a mix of nostalgia and disgust, on how satisfying it was to deck a bullying mage instead of slinging spells.  But he had gotten into trouble, even as Irving’s favorite, every time he defended Jowan from a bully or stopped a fight.  “I don’t think I can ever pay you back for that, but I want to try.  Take me with you.”

“Jowan--”

“No one really knows I’m here, no one on the outside, at least.  No one will miss me while I’m gone.  You don’t have to make any excuses for my absence.  And I’m not as useless as I used to be.”  Tugging at the hem of one sleeve as if to pull it down further over the scars it covered, Jowan looked away again, suddenly sheepish and nervous.  “Take me with you.”

Overwhelmed with a sudden urge to hug the other man, Cadryn resisted, unsure exactly what had just passed between them.  “We’ll see.”

~*~

  
After three weeks of waiting a letter arrived, in gloriously florid script, addressed to The Fereldan Warden Commander, Arl of Amaranthine and Hero of the Fifth Blight.  It read,

We are rigged for transporting magical goods and hunting exotic birds, awaiting cargo and fees.

As far as most knew, Cadryn really was going to Weisshaupt, going to Cumberland by ship and heading on from there.  An unfortunate but unavoidable detour, to drop off Aduran to begin his task of misdirection.  When he addressed the Wardens before leaving, Cadryn was shocked to find there were a few more, people he couldn’t recall having met, and he had no idea what their names were.  He wasn’t afraid to embrace Alistair as a brother in front of them, whispered a little encouragement into the not-quite-Templar’s ear.

Saying goodbye to Cassius was hardest, but the mabari seemed to understand when Cadryn told him, “I’m going to bring Zevran back.”  And that satisfied the hound, in part Cadryn suspected because Zevran had been nearly as bad as Leliana about slipping the hound treats when they thought no one was looking.  What the dog seemed to understand no longer surprised him.

Jowan was waiting for them at the docks, robes finally abandoned for less conspicuous clothing.  When the blood mage approached Aduran’s hand immediately strayed to his sword, but Cadryn stayed him with a hand.

“You left me behind.”

“You’ll be in the way, Jowan.  And you’re safer back with the Wardens.”

“I won’t be in the way!  I’ve changed, Cadryn.  I’m not a child.”  Jowan’s outburst was sudden, and Aduran’s gauntlet creaked audibly as his grip on his sword hilt tightened.  “Let me help you.  Please.”

“If I say no, you’re just going to stow away, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

And Cadryn wasn’t about to just have him thrown overboard or leave him in Aduran’s care in Cumberland--that seemed a certain recipe for disaster.  

They boarded the Siren's Call with the first light of dawn faintly coloring the horizon, Isabela welcoming them warmly and proudly, and left on the morning tide.

~*~

  
Tauno wasn't really sure why he'd followed her all this way. She was human, and stupid, and he really shouldn't care if she got herself keel-hauled or press ganged by pirates or on the wrong boat or from a hundred other horrible ends he could think of. Probably because she was the Warden Commander's niece, and even though the Commander seemed bent on ignoring her existence most of the time Tauno understood, above all else, the importance of family. They were all blood family now, and while he had a hundred reasons to dislike them, humans as they were and mage as the Warden Commander was, they were among the first people outside his own family who had treated him like he had some value. Even the other Wardens mostly ignored him: the Dalish calling him flat-ear and ignorant, the humans speaking to him as if it were a very delicate thing, communicating with an elf, and the dwarves put off by his quiet nature.

So, if he had to give a reason, he would say it was an obligation, that you had to protect family even if you didn't like them. But he did like them, because he felt he had a lot in common with the Commander, how quiet and thoughtful the man seemed and that he was intimidatingly large for his race, and Melia because she refused to let him mope over his lot in life.

It was still the mantra of duty he returned to after they were found and dragged up to the deck, bruised and battered, and presented to the pirate captain who looked them over with an appraising eye. The way her eyes lingered on Tauno's thickly muscled form made him uncomfortable, felt like an animal being appraised, and the laugh she gave at Melia's outburst of, “You can't do anything to us, we're Grey Wardens!” didn't reassure him at all.

At least dying at sea was different from how he'd expected his life to end.

“Someone fetch me the man in charge of this expedition!” the captain called out, still laughing under her breath, and reeling on the door. “We have prisoners to ransom!” Someone ran off to the cabin at the rear, out of line of sight for the two young Wardens being kept in a crouching position. Tauno decided it would be best to keep his head down, his eyes averted, everything he had to do to seem meeker than his build would imply. The heavy boot steps that approached thudded out certain doom or assured bondage, and the fine, unadorned leather boots and leggings—all he could see of the man—put him in mind of a hundred tales heard as a child of thieves getting their comeuppance, because the man moved with authority and purpose. “Caught a couple of stowaways, pet. If you ask me they look like they'll sell very well.”

“Too much mouth on the redhead,” was a rich, resonant voice with the Denerim accent, unmistakeable. “The other one is perfectly able.”

“Uncle Ryn! You're not seriously--”

The pirate captain burst into laughter again, this time to tears, and the men and women around her began chuckling as well. “Ryn\--ah, hah, what---oh, I'm sorry, pet.”

The Commander had to project his voice to be heard over the raucous noise, and Tauno finally craned his neck to look up at the man. He was even more imposing from this angle, dressed in leathers and carrying a foreign-looking sword, jaw set grim and a sort of dark fury in his eyes glaring down at them. “Do you have,” things started to calm down, “any menial work for a pair of wayward Wardens who've abandoned their posts?”

Next to him Melia started struggling, but she was small statured and built for speed and stealth, couldn't shrug off the brawny woman holding her down. “Uncle! Please, you can't go to Weisshaupt by yourself! We just--”

“I'm not going to Weisshaupt, Melia.” She stopped struggling, gaping up at him dumbly. “I'm going to Antiva. And apparently you are too, now, and straight back on the first ship willing.”

“Drop them off in Cumberland,” the Captain murmured, and she drew a little closer, put a hand on his shoulder in a sort of playful familiarity.

“I can't have them under Aduran's feet, making his job harder, or having them get back and blathering about where I'm going.”

Antiva, of course meant--”The assassin?” the first thing Tauno had said, too surprised to keep his own mouth shut even if he knew better.

The Commander threw his hands wide and looked up, made a sound of exasperation. “Does everyone from Denerim's alienage know my business?”

“Shianni has a big mouth.”

“Yes, apparently.” Gesturing to the two kneeling Wardens, he sentenced them with, “Isabela, these two are yours until we get to Antiva City.  I expect you two to do everything Isabela tells you, and that includes licking her boots clean and keeping your mouths shut.  If I hear a single word of protest or complaint Isabela will have a new ornament for her masthead, understand?”

Next to him Melia was shaking with barely-contained laughter, as if she found these threats funny.  Cadryn knelt down, snatched up her chin in one hand and forced her to look at him.  “You think this is funny?  Understand, I am not your friend.  I am not your uncle.  You are no one but another Warden to me.  They are your family, and you’ve abandoned them.  That’s a kind of dereliction, and I could do much, much worse.  But you’re young, and you’re stupid, you think you’re invulnerable, don’t understand all the possible consequences of your actions.”  She tried to jerk away, but Cadryn’s grip was too firm, pulling her right back unmercifully.  “What if they need one more blade in a fight, and you’re not there?  If a darkspawn makes it to one of the mages because Tauno isn’t there to stop them?  Those deaths would be on your hands.

“Say we get to Antiva, and you do come along.  Do you think you can stand up in a fight, surrounded by men and women who make a living at killing?  I’ll be fighting Antivan Crows, my dear.”  Her eyes widened at the word, and Cadryn smirked, as if darkly pleased at her evident shock and fear.  “And if I spend my time protecting you instead of someone else, or myself?  If they track back to Isabela’s involvement from your adorable bumbling and kill her as well?”  The deck had grown eerily silent throughout, and Isabela shifted her weight, gave a little nod to back Cadryn up, looking perfectly comfortable with the humiliating conversation going on in front of her.  “You’re going to scrub decks or whatever else Isabela needs done, and you’re going to think about how much Tauno likes sharing your punishment, since I know you got him into this, and about how many deaths you can cause by so innocently getting on a ship.”

Cadryn let go of her and stood to stalk off.  Melia remained where she was, slouched and not quite in tears but very upset, and it bothered Tauno, but he didn’t dare reach out to her.  She kind of deserved it, after all.  And aside from that, for the first time in his life Tauno was glad he was so used to hard physical labor.


	13. Chapter 13

Sitting on the balcony, staring out past the compound walls over the city, Zevran was torn. He loved Antiva, loved the salty spicy smell of it, the sea breezes, the bright colors and the beautiful men and women, loved how much he could get away with here. There was always something to do, someone to keep you company. He didn't want to go back to Ferelden, cold and dreary and dull and foul-smelling as the place was. There was only one thing he really wanted in Ferelden, one thing that he loved more than Antiva. It was the reason why he had come here, and the reason why he would remain until this was done.

But the longer he was here, the less he wanted to leave. Amidra was wont to come to his rooms late at night to discuss some small detail of what Crows had come to them, which cells were making motions about joining them and which could be trusted, which ones they wanted to court, which masters they should kill next. He knew her game, showing up in those slinky little dresses that looked more like a slip or a piece of nightwear than any clothing currently in fashion, subtly perfumed and face freshly painted. When she came in tonight Zevran was still standing on the balcony, half undressed, enjoying the sea breeze and staring out at the city he loved.

Every night since he'd been here he'd been lonely, kept company by thoughts of his lover in some far away, cold place, surrounded by friends and familiar comforts. It pleased him, to think Cadryn was safe and if not happy at least content. Over time it began to grate on him, and he did not crave that safety and comfort but was jealous of it, and that jealousy became hard and bitter as the weeks drew on. Tonight he wasn't lonely. Tonight he was Master of House Callisto, and he was as safe and comfortable as a Crow could be.

What Amidra quietly but insistently offered Zevran took now, mapping the skin of her slender throat and the swell of her breasts beneath lips and hands, leaving marks of his passing and wringing ecstatic cries from her under the careful work of his tongue. It had been too long since he'd enjoyed a woman's soft flesh, and it was different. He had missed this, pleasure without attachment and simply for the sake of pleasure. They continued on after the first time he spent himself in her tight heat, because Amidra moaned, “More,” and in some twisted way this was revenge against an absent lover, one denied him by distance best measured in nations and time that was simply too much.

Once he had spent himself again under the ministrations of Amidra's perfect mouth and wicked tongue, and they were both quite sated, and the tracks left by her nails across his back had begun to sting, she sauntered off to her own quarters. The bed was suddenly too big for one person, so Zevran fetched a bottle of brandy from the bureau and sat on the balcony, nude, staring out at the city.

He loved Antiva, but it was still a dirty place, the people dark-hearted and false. It would twist him back into a Crow if he lingered too long, and laying with Amidra had shown him that, in those moments after as she was leaving. Nothing had meaning here beyond its worth in money or favors.

He missed strong arms holding him and soft words whispered into his ear, he missed being wanted for who instead of what he was, being understood without having to explain himself. He missed being loved, and loving in return. No one here was really worth that, not since Rinna's death.

And Cadryn's bed was just as empty as his. It had taken Amidra's smooth skin and ecstatic cries to remind him of that. They were each, in their own similar ways, miserable, as he was sure Cadryn was dealing with tedious, self-important idiots who all wanted something and religious fanatics who expected some sort of penance from him for things beyond anyone's control. Given a choice, Zevran would rather deal with the Crows, all told.

After a long drink of the brandy, Zevran decided that Cadryn's embrace would keep him warm through the worst of Ferelden's winters, and there would be enough entertainment in keeping the mage from taking himself too seriously and frustrating the nobility with the fact that a foreign elf and former slave had more say in how the Arling was run than any of them. He was quickly getting too old for this Crow nonsense, anyway.

~*~

  
“Don't you think you're a little tough on the kids?” By the little grin she quickly turned to disguise and the quirk of her brow, Isabela thought nothing of the sort and was simply needling him with the topic. She retrieved two small crystal tumblers, plain and unadorned but very finely cut, and a dark bottle from a chest bolted to the floor of her cabin.

“There's responsibility aboard ship, too. If your man at the crow's nest fell asleep, you'd have him bent over a barrel and flogged.” Isabela glanced back at him, her little grin lingering at his words as she poured a dark liquor from the bottle.

“And other things.” She handed him a little tumbler, half-full, then sat down on top of the chest she'd pulled everything from, straddling a corner to face him where he sat on the bed. “It’s no fun, having to say 'no' all the time. So every once in a while I say 'yes'. They either seize on it and come to regret it later, or think I'm tricking them and grow wary for a while. Which I am, of course. Tricking them, that is.” Isabela did not sip her drink, but did not throw it back either, clearly savoring the taste. Cadryn swirled the dark liquid in his glass before taking a drink, found it smooth as softest skin, tasting of molasses and exotic spices. “Got this rum off a Rivaini trader,” Isabela said, wiggling the bottle she still held in one hand as she leaned back on the trunk. “The rest of his cargo was... more than a little suspect, shall we say. It’s not a requirement, but I so prefer taking from people who deserve it.”

Silence passed for just a moment, and when he could feel Isabela's eyes on him Cadryn finished his rum and held out the glass for her. “Tell me about Rivain.”

So she did, talking about the culture there, that it was neither Chantry nor Qun and they didn't care one whit about a mage until he became dangerous, that elves were no different from humans or dwarves there. It had its faults, certainly, and those prejudices existed, but they weren't enforced. The telling drew on, her accent sliding up and down on the words in a fashion that matched the smoothness of the rum, and Cadryn found himself idly stroking the soft furs that covered the bed, watching the dark rum catch the evening lamplight, and her words almost stopped mattering.

Somewhere along the way it just happened, he couldn't say how, Isabela straddling his lap, clothes quickly falling away and lush hair unbound. Between his lips and her dusky skin were memories of sharing her with Zevran, memories of better times. Her hair smelled of the exotic incense of Rivain, her lips tasted of sea salt and spiced liquor. In her dark eyes, simple desire, something offered for like in exchange. The swell of her breasts and the curves of her body were foreign, but her throaty moans satisfied something he hadn't realized he'd needed.

He enjoyed the physical, certainly. He was mortal, after all. This both was and wasn't about the sex. Isabela did not judge him, did not care that he was Arl or Warden Commander save that it meant he could make attractive promises about smuggling and safe harbor. She didn't need to know the story of his life, or all the hardships he had endured, all the foolish things he'd done. She didn't care that he was a mage, neither thrilling in the danger of such a tryst nor fearing him. They were friends as business partners who were fond of one another might be, a relatively simple relationship in that she liked money and he needed her services. No politics here, only simple responsibilities: at the moment, only to please and to accept pleasure. He did not feel shamed for his weaknesses in her presence because she did not care.

And this was another weakness, yes, but more than a year of separation—which felt more like an age at this point--from his lover and alienation from his friends left him too eager for what she offered: acceptance, her own brand of it. It was comfort of a sort he desperately needed.

They shared the bed in her cabin that night, but not tangled in each other's arms as lovers, even covered in each other's sweat and still tasting each other on their lips; they slept back-to-back, still skin on skin, but it was just for the warmth against the chill air on the Waking Sea.

~*~

  
The trip to Cumberland passed too quickly for Aduran's liking. The whole prospect made him nervous, uncertain about any number of possibilities. He didn't like the idea of orchestrating this distraction, but he understood—and Cadryn had always been his one, true weakness. They'd been sent to hunt a possessed child, a sort of punishment for Aduran himself, not to rescue an abused boy, and it was the longest Aduran had spent with a child since... well, Cadryn was much more than just some mage they'd escorted to the Circle. He'd become a symbol of everything Aduran had lost. Aduran would lie to the Maker himself for that little boy, even if the man he'd become was detached and strange.

He was a few days out of Cumberland and beginning to relax into the idea of this whole affair, beginning to have some hope that it would run blessedly smooth, fantasizing about the ordeal amounting to a leisurely trip up through some of the warmer country and stopping short of actually reaching the Anderfels. That was the plan, after all, that he would stop and wait for word from Cadryn before returning, in order to return together.

Spring was coming into the countryside, greening it up, the weather pleasantly warm, and Aduran had almost begun to think of this as a sort of vacation when he ambled into a little town with its one-room Chantry, the inn easily the largest building around. He posted his letter with the innkeep, who promised to send it off with the next group passing through, and bought a room, planning to idle his afternoon away out of armor and chatting with the local residents. An idle afternoon of fishing might be in order if anyone knew of any good fishing holes about....

When he came downstairs from setting his things aside a small squad of Templars were standing about in front of the innkeep's desk. The man pointed, and they turned in unison, one who had his helmet tucked under one arm, and a jaw a smith could fold metal over, immediately striding up to meet Aduran. “Ser Aduran?” Aduran nodded. The man turned his piercing blue eyes briefly over the rest of the room, up the stairs past Aduran. “I see that your charge is not with you.”

“Indeed, he is not.” Aduran had decided he would own his folly proudly. “The boy managed an Archdemon without nannying, I'd wager he can manage a little excursion on his own.”

“That is not your decision to make.” Aduran finally placed the other Templar's accent—Tevinter, which meant he was likely dealing with a fanatic who'd left his homeland for religious reasons. “We are to escort you back to Ferelden. The Grand Cleric wishes to speak to you about some of your reports.”

“Right this very moment?” Aduran did his best to sound incredulous, voice bright with it, and gave them a grandfatherly smile he'd practiced on hundreds of frightened little apostate children over the years. “I was looking forward to a bit of fishing this afternoon. You and your men are welcome to join me, of course.”

Ser Anvil-Jaw was not amused, but Aduran certainly heard a tinny laugh out of the helmets behind him.


End file.
